HAVE A LITTLE FAITH
23 SEPTEMBER
Amplifier on.
Microphone on.
Guitar tuned.
Plectrum in hand.
And . . . play.
I begin a simple three-chord harmony into the emptiness of my studio. It’s an upbeat little number that came to me while I was in the shower this morning.
As I play, I also sing a little song.
‘Oh, Allie, I’m so sorry . . . I should have been more honest with you, by golly.’
‘Oh, Allie, I’m a dipshit . . . I don’t blame you for leaving my life, the second you heard it.’
‘Oh, Allie, I hate this tumour . . . It’s ruined my life good and proper, that’s no rumour.’
‘Oh, Allie, but without it . . . I’d never have got to be with you, no doubt about it.’
‘Oh, Allie, I’m so confused . . . I need some answers about all this, to lift my mood.’
‘Oh, Allie, I’d like to keep singing . . . but I have to go now, as I can hear the doorbell ringing.’
I stop playing my strange little ditty and put the guitar to one side. For a moment, I find it hard to get off the stool. The unfairness of everything that’s happened to me has temporarily rendered me immobile.
Allie knowing about the tumour is absolutely the right thing – and I should have told her a long time ago – but my good fucking God it still hurts that I’ve probably lost her. I’ve had to give up the best thing in my life because of the worst thing in my life, and I resent that with every fibre of my being.
I hear the muffled sound of the doorbell ringing again from beyond the studio, sigh deeply and go to answer it.
I open the front door to find my mother standing there with a rather perturbed look on her face. ‘Hello, son. I got your text.’ She looks at me incredulously. ‘You want to go to church?’
I’ve always had a problem with God – mainly because he probably doesn’t exist, and nothing that non-existent should cause so much trouble on such a regular basis.
These days, I’m fully prepared to be proved wrong about this, of course. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than the safe and secure knowledge that there is a God and, by extension, an afterlife.
Also, if God does exist, I would ask the bastard to explain to me how it’s possible for a man so permanently close to death to fall head over heels in love.
Surely this is a design flaw that he needs to address as quickly as possible. It’s like embarking on an extensive road trip when your head gasket’s about to blow. There should be some kind of mechanism in place to stop that kind of thing happening.
I kind of figured it might be a good idea to go and have a word with him . . . if he’s actually up there, of course.
‘And you really want me to come to this church with you?’ Mum says doubtfully, as she sips her coffee.
‘Yes.’
‘I’m not sure it would be a very good idea, Nathan.’
‘Why not?’
Mum looks uncomfortable. ‘Religion has always been something I’ve tried to steer you away from. My mother was a wonderful woman in some ways, but her religion sometimes made her intolerant of others. It wasn’t pleasant to be around.’
‘She was Catholic, wasn’t she?’
‘Yes. A very old-school Catholic. If you weren’t feeling guilty about something, then you weren’t trying hard enough.’
‘Well, this’ll be different. It’s a newer church than that. Came over from America a few years ago.’
Mum puts down the coffee mug and fixes me with a knowing stare. ‘You’ve never once considered religion in your life, Nathan. Not even after your diagnosis. What’s changed now? Why this sudden need to—’ Realisation dawns on her face. ‘Oh. This is because of Alison, isn’t it?’
‘No!’ I look away from her. ‘Yes . . . probably . . . I don’t know.’
It’s been three weeks since Allie found out about my illness, and she hasn’t been in contact since. I have to admit that for a couple of days I held on to the hope that my phone might ring, but that didn’t last much past forty-eight hours. I knew damn well that telling her the truth would end the relationship, and that’s exactly what happened.
I did hear from Freddie at Helmore, though. Apparently, the plan to stymie Lord Pinchyface is already going very well indeed and the future of the home is looking far more secure, thanks to my contribution. The residents are going to name a new stairlift after me, to show their gratitude. This seems completely appropriate, for some reason.
Freddie also asked me if I’d spoken to his granddaughter. It hurt me down to my core to admit that I hadn’t.
I’m not sure if I’d have picked up the call even if Allie had rung, though. Far better for her to move on and find someone else. Any other decision would be stupid, and Allie has never struck me as the stupid type. Splitting up was definitely the right thing to do.
So, here I am, single again. And still sporting a killer brain tumour.
‘How did you find out about this church?’ Mum asks, breaking me out of this morose train of thought.
‘When I got diagnosed, they handed me a leaflet about the church at the hospital,’ I tell her. ‘I looked them up online the other day. It’s one of those new types of evangelical church. They’re happy for anyone to come along, and they seem to do some interesting sermons about dealing with the kind of . . . problem I’ve got. I thought it’d be worth checking out, and I guess I’d like a little company when I go.’
‘Those kinds of churches are a bit strange, Nathan.’
‘I had a look at their website. It all seems quite normal. No weirder than the Church of England stuff I’ve seen in the past.’
‘Hmmm.’
‘Look, if nothing else, it won’t be boring. These evangelical churches are less about the pews, the quiet praying and the smell of old cloth and more about the tambourines and raucous singing. It could be quite good fun – musically speaking, if nothing else.’
‘All right, son,’ she says with a sigh. ‘But don’t expect me to join in with any singing. Your father always said I have a voice that could strip paint at forty paces. I don’t want to be arrested for criminal damage.’
What I’m not telling my mother is that I’ve planned this trip for her benefit as much as I have for mine. The sermon we’re going to see is by the fabulously named Carmichael Renfro and is all about how to deal with serious illness – up to and including the terminal kind.
Mum hasn’t come to terms with what’s happening to me yet. I know that because she still hasn’t looked through the will I sent her.
She obviously thinks there’s hope I might survive all of this, and there’s nothing I’ve been able to do to convince her otherwise thus far. Maybe she might hear something in Carmichael Renfro’s sermon that could do the job for me . . .
‘Well, that’s not a church,’ I remark as we pull up into the car park the next day.
‘I don’t see any steeples,’ Mum points out as she switches her car engine off. ‘And there’s a distinct lack of stained-glass windows.’
‘It looks like an industrial warehouse.’
‘That’s because it’s an industrial warehouse, Nathan.’
I give my mother a look and climb out of the car.
She’s not wrong, though, is she?
This doesn’t so much look like a place of worship. It looks like somewhere you’d come to pick out your new window fittings. The building is a single-storey brick and metal box, stretching off to the left and right for a good hundred feet in both directions. I would double-check the address on the satnav were it not for the fact that nailed to the wall next to the glass entrance is a sign saying, ‘Heavenly Outlook Evangelical Church – Come One, Come All!’
‘Well, it looks warmer than St Peters down the road,’ Mum remarks. ‘And it probably won’t smell funny.’
‘Here’s hoping,’ I reply, and wander across the car park, noting that a steady stream of people is making its way into the building as I do so. Today’s service looks to be quite popular. I glance at my watch. It’s coming up to 11 a.m. I was always under the impression that religious observance on a Sunday had to happen at stupid o’clock in the morning, and yet here we are. Perhaps the evangelicals believe that part of praising Jesus is having a nice lie-in beforehand. This is something I could definitely get behind.
Mum and I join the steady trickle of bodies piling into the church/ex-branch of B&Q. The congregants all look like perfectly normal human beings to me. Not a loony among them. I don’t quite know what I was expecting, but when I hear the word ‘evangelical’ I tend to picture socially maladjusted folk who enjoy corduroy trousers, leather sandals with socks, acrylic sweaters and a permanent look of good-natured insanity.
We go through two sets of double doors and into a massive open auditorium – one that continues the industrial theme with exposed steel girders and white ceiling panels above my head, interspersed with large skylights that let in the sunlight, bathing the whole place in a pleasant glow. The walls and floor are both spartan white. The place looks as clean as several whistles. There’s not a statue or picture of Jesus anywhere to be seen – but there is a large stage constructed at one end of the hall, with rows of comfortable-looking chairs laid out in front of it, towards which all of the people are heading. The stage is bare except for a few microphone stands – though there are speakers on both sides.
‘I suppose we should go and sit down,’ I say to Mum.
‘All right. At the back, please.’
I nod. At the back sounds like a sensible decision to me.
As we take our seats, a few of the people say hello to us in a very friendly manner. The atmosphere here feels homely and pleasant, despite the size and austerity of the building. As the seats fill up, I feel a small smile creep across my face. There’s a real sense of belonging here. It pretty much radiates off these people in waves.
When everyone seems seated and ready to go, a hush descends over the hall. Then out on to the stage comes . . . a rock band.
I was expecting someone in corduroy trousers, but no, instead we have a band composed of three people – a lead guitarist, a bassist and a singer. There’s no drum kit, which would have given the game away before I’d sat down, but I can see a fourth person crouched down off to one side of the stage with a laptop.
The singer – a woman in her mid-thirties – grabs a microphone off the central stand and waves at us. ‘Good morning!’ she says into the mic in an excited voice.
‘Good morning!’ the vast majority of the crowd repeat in equally happy tones.
‘Are we all here to praise the good Lord and his son Jesus Christ?’
‘Yes!’ the exultant cry goes up. Not from me and Mum, I hasten to add – we’re sat like a couple of silent plums, awaiting developments.
‘Then get up out of your seats and sing with us! Praise the Lord!’
The audience members pretty much all stand at once. It’s like the general has just walked in on his troops.
The two guitarists start to play. While they are a little amateurish to my professional ear, they can carry a tune well enough for this crowd, it appears. It’s not a song I’m familiar with, but the congregation know it extremely well, singing along with the woman onstage like their lives depend on it.
As a musician, it’s a little hard for me not to get caught up in the moment. I love a good sing-along as much as the next person, so while I don’t get up and start dancing, I do stamp my feet and bob my head back and forth in time to the music.
Mum sits there with her hands held firmly in her lap and a suspicious look on her face.
The song itself is all about how great Jesus is. This should come as no surprise to anyone. The lyrics are universally about how wonderful it is to love Jesus and how wonderful it is that he loves you right back. The world is full of people who love Jesus, you understand – and all the joy in the world quite obviously stems from this.
It’s not going to win any awards any time soon, but it’s catchy as fuck – and is quite frankly the sort of thing I’d write, only I’d focus on talking fruit instead of our Lord and saviour.
When the song ends and the rapturous applause dies down, the singer steps forward to address the crowd. ‘Hello, everyone. What a wonderful way to start today’s service that was. For the newcomers amongst us, my name is Lindsay and I am the church’s community outreach officer.’
Community outreach officer sounds like a job at the local council, rather than a member of a church, but we’ll let it slide, as she has a pretty good singing voice.
‘I’d like to welcome up onstage someone I know you’ve all been looking forward to hearing speak. To give our sermon for the day, please welcome – all the way from the Heavenly Outlook central church in Wisconsin, USA – Elder Carmichael Renfro!’
The thunderous applause that follows would be enough to wake up God if he were having a quick mid-morning nap. On to the stage comes the most tanned and luxurious human being I have ever seen in my life. Carmichael Renfro is dressed in a sharp light-grey suit and has the kind of quaffed hair that most daytime TV game show hosts can only dream about. He is so tanned that there’s every chance he’s been dipped in gravy browning. He also has a set of teeth so bright that I’m considering putting on my sunglasses, even here in the back row.
‘Praise Jesus! Praise Jesus!’ Carmichael screams into the microphone in a thick American accent.
‘Praise Jesus!’ the crowd cries back at him.
‘Oh Jesus,’ my mother says in a low voice, shrinking into her chair.
‘How are you fine folk today?’ Renfro asks his adoring crowd – as if he didn’t know. The audience cheers and jumps up and down a bit, indicating that they are doing quite all right actually, thank you very much.
‘That’s good . . . that’s so, so good,’ Renfro says in a voice you could make expensive ladies’ gloves out of. ‘I’m so pleased to be here in the UK, touring our wonderful ministries. We’re a young church, but we are growing – praise the Lord!’
‘Praise him!’ several of the crowd members crow right back at Carmichael Renfro. There seems to be some kind of competition going on to see who can praise Jesus the most. So far, there’s a fat bloke in a red T-shirt down at the front who appears to be in the lead, though the skinny woman in her fifties parked about three rows in front of Mum and me is giving him a run for his money.
‘Today, my good, good people, I want to talk to you about sickness,’ Renfro says. ‘I want to talk to you about sickness and how the ministrations and love of our good Lord can help you cope with it, no matter how bad it is – how the love of Jesus Christ can help you change the things you cannot accept and accept the things you cannot change.’
Sounds good to me. I hope Mum is paying attention. Acceptance is what I’m after from her, and hopefully this will help her find it. Even if she doesn’t have the kind of faith Renfro and his flock possess, I’m hoping that the message he’s preaching will at least hit home with her.
Carmichael Renfro then launches into what can only be described as the most animated religious sermon I’ve ever witnessed. I vaguely remember tired, old men in cassocks from my childhood delivering sonorous and dull speeches from ornate pulpits at Christmas. This is nothing like that.
Renfro is a whirling dervish, a conflagration of pinwheeling arms and convulsive legs. He runs across the stage like Sebastian Coe. He twirls and whirls like a gymnast on amphetamines. He roars at the crowd like Brian Blessed on a mountain. It’s quite something to behold.
And what he says about sickness speaks to me. Oh my, yes, it speaks to me good and proper. This is largely because Renfro does not simply quote from Bible passages. If he were up there saying things like, ‘God viewest thou suffering and shall taketh thee up into heaven once thou hast carked it, where thou shalt sit beside his mighty graciousness, eating of the plums and other fruits,’ I would have switched off immediately. But he’s not doing that. Instead, Renfro is talking like a normal human being, even though he’s doing it at a decibel level outlawed by most aviation authorities.
‘I know that your pain is bad,’ he says, exuding passion, ‘and that the sickness never seems to end. I know you feel like there is no hope, that nobody is there for you. You feel left behind, you feel out of place, you feel closed in, you feel alone!’
Yes, Carmichael – all of those things and more!
‘But, my friends, believe me, trust me, be in no doubt when I say that you are not alone. That you are not left behind. That the suffering and pain you endure will come to an end.’ Renfro’s voice now drops. ‘Because, my friends, our Lord is with you. With you for all your days, both good and bad. He sees your pain and suffers it with you. He knows what it’s like to be a person alone and without hope. And let me tell you, my friends, that he will see an end to your pain, through his grace and love. He will take away that suffering! He will remove that sense of hopelessness! He will make you feel whole again! You will have peace and you will have rest! Praise Jesus!’
‘Praise Jesus!’
Compelling stuff, isn’t it? Carmichael Renfro sounds utterly convincing. Chances are you’re perfectly healthy and still like the sound of what he’s saying.
Now put yourself in my shoes.
I am, and always have been, a man without faith, but here I am, standing on a precipice, and Renfro’s words sound pretty marvellous to me.
If I can just make that leap and accept God into my heart, then all of this worry, all of this suffering will be far, far easier to deal with. I will not go into that dark night alone and scared!
I’ve completely forgotten about Mum by this stage, to be honest. Hell, I’ve even forgotten about Allie as well. This guy has caught my full attention in a way I never expected. I came here hoping to break Mum out of her cycle of denial and get some answers about why I had to fall in love at the worst possible time, but instead I’m apparently cycling my way fast towards a religious conversion . . .
I’m sat forward in my chair now, hanging on Renfro’s every word. I want to believe, damn it, and this man is making me.
The look of cynical boredom on my mother’s face suggests she won’t be leaving here today any more convinced of my impending demise, but at the rate I’m going, I’ll be leaving convinced that it’s a demise that might not be as permanent as I’d feared, if God has anything to do with it.
The flamboyant American’s sermon comes to a close after about half an hour, but that is not the end of today’s performance – not by a long shot.
‘If you are in pain, my friends, if you feel suffering as our Lord did, then come to me now, come to me and I will help you! By the grace of our Lord, Jesus Christ, I will cast that pain from you in this place!’
Two people get to their feet. One does it quite slowly and looks in a dreadful amount of pain as he does so.
‘Come up, sister! Come up, my brother!’ Renfro bids them.
The two churchgoers – a gaunt middle-aged woman and an old boy with obvious arthritis in his arms and legs – go up on to the stage. Renfro asks the woman her name, which is Valerie, asks her if she is a member of the church, which she is, and then asks her what her ailment is. She suffers from inflammatory bowel disease, which has obviously taken a heavy toll on her, from the looks of things. Quite what the good Lord can do about it I am keen to discover.
Renfro places a hand on the woman’s belly and starts to pray. As he does, the crowd all start to clap, cheer and wave exultantly. After a few moments, Renfro starts to scream at the top of his voice. ‘Begone, pain! Begone, foul illness, from this woman’s body! In the name of Jesus Christ, I demand you give this woman surcease!’ And with that, he jumps away from her like she’s just given him an electric shock.
Valerie then turns and beams at the crowd. I’ve never seen someone look so happy. She then bounds back to her chair like a springing gazelle. It’s an amazing transformation.
Then it’s the turn of the old boy, who just about manages to walk forward to greet Renfro, his every movement accompanied by a wince on his face.
Renfro lays one hand on his shoulder. ‘You are in great pain, aren’t you, my friend?’
‘Yes, Carmichael.’
‘What ails you?’
‘My arthritis, Carmichael. I’m riddled with it.’
‘And what is your name?’
‘Alistair, Carmichael.’
‘And are you a member of our wonderful church?’
‘I am, Carmichael.’
Renfro places his hands on the old man’s shoulders. ‘Then let us cast this pain from your body, Alistair! Let us raise the roof of this house to the Lord so that he might answer your prayers and give you peace!’
For a second time, Renfro prays, and now the audience is even more animated, even more excited. They cry and shout, they scream and stamp their feet. They pray hard and stand on their seats.
And the man they are watching is clearly building up to something big. He is now shaking on the spot, hands still clamped on poor old Alistair’s shoulders. The prayers fly from his mouth, accompanied by a fair amount of spittle. I don’t know if Alistair’s arthritis is going to be cured, but he’s certainly going home plastered in another man’s phlegm.
Renfro climaxes with his entreaty to God to end this man’s suffering. When he does his electric shock thing this time, though, something odd happens. Alistair also flies backwards, as if some force has erupted between the two men. For a moment it looks like the old boy is going to lose his footing and collapse, which will surely do his arthritic limbs no good whatsoever, but instead of falling, he sticks one leg out as fast as you please and steadies himself on the stage like a ninja after a particularly cool backflip.
‘How do you feel, Alistair?!’ Renfro shouts at the man, a broad grin on his face.
Alistair does a little jig. A man who could barely walk a couple of minutes ago does a little jig right there on the stage. ‘I feel wonderful!’ he exults.
The crowd goes fucking bonkers.
Even I start applauding.
The results are quite incredible.
Alistair pretty much cartwheels back to his seat, with people clapping him on the back and shaking his hand as he goes.
The praising now goes on for what feels like a fortnight, until Renfro eventually calms the herd with a few gentle hand gestures. ‘Now, my friends, is there anyone else who needs my ministrations? Anyone else who needs their pain to be taken away?’
I feel myself rise from my seat, almost involuntarily.
‘Nathan?! What are you doing?!’ Mum exclaims from beside me, but I ignore her.
There’s a hush from the crowd as I get to my feet. Renfro gives me a knowing look and bids me to come onstage with him. ‘Come up, my friend. Come up and receive the grace of our Lord.’
What have I got to lose, eh? I’ve already lost my future and my girlfriend. There’s not much more that can be taken away from me, is there?
I walk up on to the stage, several hundred eyes following me as I do so.
Renfro holds out a hand for me to shake. ‘Hello, my friend, and welcome. What is your name?’
‘I’m Nathan,’ I reply.
‘Are you a member of our church?’
‘Er, no. Not at the moment.’
This earns me an indulgent and somewhat speculative smile. ‘Then what brings you here today, Nathan? Are you sick? Do you suffer with an illness?’
I swallow hard. ‘Yes.’
‘What ails you, my friend? What test has the Lord sent your way?’
I look out into the crowd. I’m a little reluctant to be so open in front of a bunch of strangers. ‘I have a brain tumour. A bad one.’
Renfro nods solemnly. ‘A mighty test for any man, Nathan. Has it left you feeling scared and out in the cold? In need of the good Lord’s warmth?’
‘I . . . I suppose?’
He places a hand on my head. It’s quite sweaty. ‘Then let me fill you with that warmth! Let me fill you up!’
In no other circumstance would I allow a sweaty American man with a spray tan to place a hand on my head and tell me he’s about to fill me up with something.
Renfro begins to pray. This time he starts off lower and deeper than ever before. Similarly, the crowd stays hushed to begin with, echoing the tone and timbre of his chanting with their own low prayers.
Then the build begins. The prayers become louder. Renfro’s hand takes a firmer grip on my head and starts to shake.
I feel absolutely nothing, other than a mild headache coming on thanks to having my bonce squeezed like an overripe melon.
Now I’m getting the Renfro shower treatment as his praying starts to get louder and louder, heading towards its theatrical crescendo. The crowd is frantically arm-waving and praising Jesus like their lives depend on it.
I am absurdly reminded in that instant of the moment in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom when the bloke in the big hat rips out the boy’s heart and shows it to his followers.
One of my hands involuntarily covers my chest. I don’t know if Renfro has the capacity to reach a hand into my ribcage and pull out my ticker, but I’m taking no chances.
And then Carmichael Renfro arrives at his destination, eyes wide and goggling. He jumps away from me as if hit by that divine electric spark once again.
I feel about as electrified as a hand whisk.
‘Praise Jesus!’ exclaims the crowd, looking forward to seeing me bounce around the stage, no doubt.
Unfortunately, I can’t oblige them, as I feel no different. In fact, the headache is just getting worse thanks to a combination of harsh lighting and Renfro’s melon-squeezing grip.
Speaking of whom, the religious leader is looking at me with curiosity, and not a little sadness.
‘Friends, friends! Please! If you could all calm yourselves for a moment.’ They do so, though it takes a good half minute. ‘It seems our new friend Nathan’s illness truly is a strong test. I must say to you now that my ministrations here today have failed him.’
A collective sigh of disappointment goes up from the crowd. I have to say I’m feeling just a tad disappointed, too. I wanted to leap off the stage like the old boy just did, but it appears I may be a tougher nut to crack.
‘It’s my fault, my friends,’ Renfro says, head bowed. ‘I have failed our friend Nathan.’ Cue lots of shaking of heads. ‘Yes, yes, my friends. The Lord has not seen fit to grant me the strength to cure him today.’ He clenches his fist and looks up. ‘But God’s love is strong, my friends!’
‘Yes!’
‘God’s love is great!’
‘Yes!’
‘God’s love will not desert Nathan! It will lift him up! It will see him whole again!’
‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’
Renfro claps that familiar, comforting hand on my shoulder. ‘Nathan, you must join our church, for it is the only way for you to receive God’s grace and be fully healed.’
‘Really?’ I respond, eyes narrowing slightly.
‘Yes. And your healing can only come if you surrender to God’s grace . . . and make your contribution.’
‘What?’ My eyes narrow even further.
‘Contribute, Nathan! For does not the Bible say in Proverbs 3:9 that you should “Honour the Lord with your wealth and with the first fruits of all your produce; then your barns will be filled with plenty, and your vats will be bursting with wine”?’
‘I don’t know, does it?’
‘Yes, of course!’ He squeezes my shoulder gently. ‘Give, Nathan. Give and it will be given to you.’ He pokes me with a finger right where my heart is. He’s not yanking it out and shouting ‘kali maa! kali maa!’ while he does it, but I get the distinct feeling that he’s after something else – my bloody wallet.
My eyes are now so narrow I can barely see out of them. ‘So let me get this straight. You can’t cure me today, like you did the other two, because I’m not a full member of the church. And to become a full member and get cured, I have to give you money?’
Carmichael Renfro actually contrives to look sincere. ‘Yes indeed, Nathan! God’s love, grace and healing are so close!’
‘And how much money will I need to give you to receive God’s love, grace and healing?’
He attempts to look spiritual. ‘Who can say, Nathan? God’s will is not ours to define!’
My expression now resembles that of somebody who has just sucked on a large, fresh lemon. ‘Take a stab at it.’
Renfro appears to think for a moment. ‘Oh, if I were to be presumptuous,’ he says, ‘I’d say a tithe of ten per cent of your earnings over the past three years would be a good start. For did Abram not give a tithe to our good Lord, as it is written in Genesis 14:20?’
‘Are you asking me or telling me?’ I reply, keeping a lid on my emotions for the time being.
‘I’m telling you, Nathan.’ Renfro squeezes my shoulder once again. ‘The good Lord is telling you, Nathan! Praise Jesus!’
I do a quick bit of mental calculation. Ten per cent of my annual earnings for the past three years is about forty grand.
Forty fucking grand to have a walking suntan squeeze my head while spitting on me.
Realisation instantly dawns.
I’ve been taken for a right fool here, haven’t I? I got hooked by Renfro’s clever sermon because of my fragile state of mind and found myself on the receiving end of a good, old-fashioned religious con.
I’m wasting my time here.
Time I just don’t have. Time I should be spending doing something constructive.
‘Nathan?’ Renfro says to me. ‘You look lost in thought. Is the good Lord working on you? Are you ready to join us?’
I turn calmly and look at Renfro with a beaming smile on my face that doesn’t reach my eyes.
‘Yes! Yes, my friend! I can see his grace filling you even as I speak!’ Carmichael crows.
I look at Renfro’s hand, still squeezing my shoulder. ‘The only thing filling me, Carmichael, is the overwhelming desire to kick you up the backside.’
Renfro’s face falls. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘You heard. Please let go of me, or I will insert my foot into your bottom with extreme prejudice.’
‘My bottom?’ His look of complete confusion warms my soul.
‘Yes, Carmichael. That’s right. My foot’ – I point down at the extremity in question and give it a waggle – ‘will be inserted into your bottom’ – I then point at Renfro’s ample posterior and continue – ‘in a manner that will have you praying for a hot bath and powerful painkillers faster than you can scream “Jesus saves”.’
‘Jesus saves!’ I hear a lone voice cry from somewhere in the audience. Apparently, somebody isn’t paying as much attention to the proceedings as they probably should.
Carmichael Renfro is paying attention however, given that I can see one hand snake protectively around to his backside.
The other hand flies off my shoulder at the same time, proving that the message has finally gotten through. Praise the lord.
Renfro then gives me a dark look. ‘You must have the devil in you, Nathan, to threaten such a horrible act to someone who wants to heal you.’
‘Possibly,’ I reply with a smile. ‘But the devil has all the best tunes, so I’m fine with that if you are.’
Carmichael doesn’t have a response to this. Which is probably a first for him.
I lightly push the suited idiot out of my way, jumping off the stage to a rising chorus of angry comments and harsh looks from a crowd that have finally realised I’m probably the bad guy here. I am more than happy to play the part for them, given that I’ve just dodged a very large and manipulative bullet.
‘Come to your senses, my son?’ Mum says to me as I reach the back row.
‘Yes. And I’m sorry we ever came here. Let’s beat a hasty retreat, shall we?’
I can feel the eyes of the congregation boring their way into my back as Mum and I hurry out of the auditorium. As we reach the exit doors, I turn and give them all a large and thrusting middle finger. It’s an extremely immature and childish thing to do, but it also feels entirely appropriate.
Outside, the righteous indignation dribbles out of my body as soon as I’ve walked back to Mum’s car.
It’s quite obvious that the church has no answers for me and never did.
‘Are you okay, son?’ Mum asks me as she opens her car door.
‘Not really, no!’ I burst out with an anger I didn’t know was there until this moment. ‘I’m going to get killed by a brain tumour and nobody can help me!’
‘Nathan! You’re not going to get killed by your tumour!’ my mother replies adamantly. ‘You’re sick, but it doesn’t mean that you’re going to die!’
I put my head in my hands for a moment, take a few deep breaths and then look back up at her. ‘Yes, I am, Mum. Yes, I am.’ I point back at the stupid church. ‘Why do you think we’re here? I brought you here to listen to a sermon about dealing with serious illness so that you’d finally come to terms with what’s happening to me . . . and all I do is nearly fall for a bloody con because I’m so terrified that I’m going to die having lived a worthless life and that I have no time left to make amends for it!’ I lean forward against the car, deflated. ‘I have no time left. It could happen any time. I could just . . . go.’
‘No, Nathan. I refuse to believe that.’
I give her a pleading look. ‘Please, Mum. I need you to believe it. I need you to believe me. Because if you don’t . . . and I die . . . you won’t be . . . you won’t be prepared.’
And there’s the rub.
Mum has to accept that I could die any time, otherwise it’ll just be so much worse for her when it inevitably happens. I know it and, by the looks of her changing expression, she’s finally starting to accept it, too. Maybe this trip wasn’t such a waste of time, after all.
She looks skywards for a moment, an agony of indecision on her face.
This is what it looks like when someone you love is coming to terms with something awful. It’s the most terrible thing I think I’ve ever had to witness.
‘Oh, Nathan!’ she eventually cries, and hurries around the car to grab me in a firm embrace. ‘It’s so, so unfair!’
‘Yeah, it is,’ I agree, voice choked with emotion.
We stand there for a few minutes – a mother coming to terms with a horrible truth and a son wishing it were all a lie – until the congregation starts to pile out of the church.
‘I think . . . I think we’d better get out of here before they try to stone us to death,’ I say, reluctantly breaking the embrace.
My mother’s eyes are full of tears, but she manages a small smile. ‘Okay, son.’ She pulls me close to her again. ‘I love you, Nathan. I love you so much.’
‘I love you, too,’ I reply, feeling a bit better about everything thanks to that parental hug.
Who needs the love of a god when you have the love of a mother, eh?
In the car on the way home, I conclude to myself that there is definitely no such thing as God.
If he were real, I probably wouldn’t have a tumour in my head, Justin Bieber wouldn’t have a career and Allie wouldn’t have left me.
If God did exist, then he’d surely want to cut me some slack right about now. After all, I’ve saved a load of donkeys and a care home, haven’t I?
Yeah, I’m sure that if God were knocking around up there somewhere, he’d want to reward me. He’d do something nice for me.
For instance, when we turn into my driveway in a minute, Allie would be standing there waiting for me, having had a change of heart.
But that’s just not going to happen, is it? Because there is no God.
I scowl and make a small involuntary noise of disgust.
‘You okay?’ Mum asks.
‘Yeah, I just need a couple of painkillers, that’s all. All that religion has given me a headache.’
‘That’s what tends to happen if you hang around it long enough,’ Mum replies sagely.
I smile grimly and stare out of the window, pondering on Carmichael Renfro and his merry band of followers. I wish I could share in their happy delusion, but I just don’t think my heart, my head or my bank balance could countenance it.
When Mum turns into my driveway a few minutes later, I nearly suffer a coronary, because Allie is standing at the far end of it, waiting for me.
Er . . . praise Jesus?
‘What . . . what are you doing here?’ I ask her as I walk over, having climbed unsteadily out of the car.
Mum scuttles past us both. ‘I think I’ll pop inside and make a cup of tea,’ she says, pulling out her key. ‘Hello, Alison.’
‘Hi, Tamsin,’ Allie replies, giving her a shaky smile.
‘Why are you here?’ I repeat, still not able to believe what I’m seeing – and also comprehensively worried that God does indeed exist and has been watching me masturbate all these years.
‘I, er . . . I just wanted to come and see you,’ she replies in a small voice. ‘Something’s happened and I wanted to tell you. I wanted to see you.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘My grandfather . . . my grandfather . . .’ She’s struggling to get her words out.
I step forward. ‘What about him?’
Allie starts to cry softly. ‘He died, Nathan. He died yesterday.’
And with that, she’s in my arms.
I have no idea whether it’s a good thing or not, but she’s there, and God knows I have no intention of letting her go for as long as it’s within my power to hold on.