Reprobation Page 18

  ‘Yeah, there’s probably been a couple of bikes vandalised by now. Maybe even a drunk and disorderly down the Bowling Club Christmas do.’

  ‘Come on,’ she laughed. ‘It’s not as boring as that. It’s your home turf and you love it.’

  ‘I do love it, it’s true,’ he nodded. Maybe this was a relief after all.

  17.

  It was the final lecture of Helen’s course, and the last day of the autumn term before the university Christmas break. She had always found this final lecture, the so-called ‘secular one’, the hardest to give. Firstly, because she would have to update it based on world events, current affairs. Secondly, because she felt obliged to round off with some of her own personal reflections. Otherwise, what was the added value? And it was scary, to talk about herself. Particular this year, when her personal reflections had changed dramatically.

  ‘Many of you are studying Theology because you have religious beliefs, whatever religion that might be. But some of you do not, some of you are atheists, agnostics, humanists, sceptics, freethinkers – call it what you will, but you are here for the intellectual challenge. And of course Eschatology is not just about religion. That’s why this eighth and final lecture, Secular Eschatologies, is a particularly important one.

  ‘Because secularism continues to rise exponentially, particularly here in the UK. And secondly, because in 2017 we are hearing a lot of secular eschatologies. These are portentous times, don’t you think? The nuclear age and its possibility of total destruction – the unquantifiable nuclear fear – brought with it a secular eschatology that, unlike religious eschatologies, creates nihilism and apathy rather than ultimate meaning. Then we had Y2K, and the millennial fears which it engendered, the fears of the technological unknown. And now we have climate change, pollution, the Anthropocene. A whole new language has grown up around this idea of the Anthropocene, and that this era of mankind’s dominance on Earth may be coming to an end. Cultural language has become apocalyptic, with talk of omnicide, of immanentizing the eschaton; all of this designed to convey a sense of magnitude, of urgency, of impending doom. Some of the things happening in the news do seem to confirm that sense of impending doom: for example the extinctions of species; President Trump pulling out of the UN climate accords; the refugee crisis; North Korea. And yet, we still seem to be in a sort of collective denial when it comes to doing anything. Are humans destined to be nihilistic? Are we unable to face death?

  ‘The fact is that all eschatologies stem from our fear of death, from our desire for immortality. In 1972, cultural anthropologist Ernest Becker published his seminal work, The Denial of Death, in which he claimed that the fear of death, or thanatophobia, is ‘the mainspring of human activity’. Most human action is taken either to ignore or to avoid the certain inevitability of death. The terror of absolute annihilation creates such a profound, albeit subconscious, anxiety in people that they spend their lives trying to make sense of it.

  ‘This theory was developed more recently by Greenberg, Pyszczynski and Solomon, who in 2015 published The Worm At The Core, reviewing the vast body of research supporting Becker’s central claim. They came up with the idea of Terror Management Theory, which proposes that human cultural and societal values are self-preservation mechanisms, designed to protect them from awareness of their own mortality. Religions offer literal immortality; the promise of an afterlife that never ends. Whereas secular eschatologies offer symbolic immortality, achieved through accomplishments in life, the bringing up of children, memories left behind.’

  Helen had strayed from her lecture notes now, and although she continued to speak she was absorbed by one of those mini-revelations that had been striking her recently. Having spent her life so far devoted to the question of literal immortality, she was beginning to realise that she cared more about symbolic immortality, about making a difference in this world. She began to talk to the students about not being afraid, about living the eternal depths of the present moment. It was as if someone else was speaking through her, and it felt good.

  ‘I’d like to leave you with a quotation from the eighteenth century French philosopher Denis Diderot. He was certainly not a fan of nuns, as you will know if you have read La Religieuse. But I believe he might have been a friend of mine.’

  She read from her notes: ‘“The thought of our destruction is like a light in the middle of the night that spreads its flames on the objects it will soon consume. We must get used to contemplating this light, since it announces nothing that has not been prepared by all that comes before; and since death is as natural as life, why should we be so afraid of it?”

  ‘So, we’ve come to the end of our semester here. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed marking your essays, and there’s just the final one to hand in now, after the Christmas holidays. The title and reading list are in front of you. Now, does anyone have any questions?’

  She looked around expectantly, but today there was nothing, even from Paul.

  ‘Well, I’ve obviously covered everything perfectly then,’ she said. ‘But since it’s our last session, perhaps I might ask a question of you. Has this course changed your minds in any way, changed your thinking about what happens after death? Paul, you’ve been my faithful adversary these last few weeks, how about you?’

  Paul shuffled in his seat and cleared his throat, unused to being in the position of being grilled himself.

  ‘I’m an atheist. I don’t think there’s anything after we die. I don’t see how any other point of view can be compatible with proven scientific knowledge. All religions can be explained by the stories we needed to tell ourselves in the past. And they have persisted for so long, even after they’ve been disproven, because they happen to be convenient for controlling people. So, yes, I’m an atheist. But that doesn’t mean I’m a nihilist. Quite the opposite, in fact. It doesn’t mean we don’t have responsibilities. In order for life to have any meaning at all, we have to do everything we can while we’re alive. All we can do is our best.’

  ‘Paul,’ she smiled, ‘there are aspects of that on which we can definitely agree.’

  As Helen gathered up her things, switched off the projector, and prepared to leave, she realised that several students were hovering around the lectern. They had come up to thank her, to tell her how much they had enjoyed the course, to wish her a happy Christmas. A couple of them even shyly invited her to the pub. ‘Oh thank you, how terribly kind of you, but I’m afraid Calvinist nuns don’t go to the pub.’ Although, she thought, I may not be a Calvinist nun for much longer.

  People filtered out so that soon there were only her and Paul left in the theatre. She had been surprised at how nervous he had been to speak about his beliefs, having been so combative with her throughout the course, and so confident in his writing. ‘Paul,’ she said. ‘May I say that your essays have been outstanding this term; beautifully written, clear analysis. Well done on an excellent term’s work, I’m sure you will do very well in the exams.’

  ‘Thank you, Dr. Hope.’

  ‘It’s unusual for an atheist to take a Theology degree. Not unheard of, and in many ways it makes sense, but… May I ask if you have a plan for the degree, where you want to take it?’

  ‘Oh, actually I’m not doing Theology, I’m just taking this course as an extra credit. And I suppose it has a certain link to my research. I’m doing a PhD in the Biology department.’

  ‘Oh really?’ Helen thought to herself that she really must get to know her students better in future, not be so distant. Another change she was going to make.

  ‘What area of biology, may I ask?’

  ‘Genetics’ said Paul. ‘My doctorate is going to be on the ethics of gene therapy.’

  Of course it is, she thought.

  ***

  Christmas is upon the city of Liverpool, heralded by music and lights. Here is the old God; the cathedrals are floodlit and glowing with city pride and ecumenical harmony. And there are the newer gods: the football stadia, also floodlit in a Christm
as truce. In three days’ time, the Boxing Day Derby will resume the red/blue balance of ironic hostilities on which the city thrives. And here are the newest gods of all: consumerism – shopping centres open late for business. St John Lewis, the shrines of Primark and Debenhams, Liverpool One now the new cathedral. And then of course the timeless gods of alcohol, fun and love. No coats for the pilgrims in vertiginous heels and bare legs, short-sleeved shirts tucked into best trousers. In this city to wear a coat is a sign of weakness. The worshippers totter and swagger down Matthew Street, cackling with joy, paying their respects at Heebie Jeebie’s, Flanagan’s Apple, where the bars are altars at which a different sort of eucharist is performed.

  Out on the black waters, the Mersey Ferry lights the way from the Albert Dock to New Brighton and back, Slade’s Christmas classic blasting from its foghorns into the sky.

  ***

  But many different musical forms can equally herald the season. Somewhere in a decrepit, cavernous club on the outskirts of London, Total Depravity is performing at the Christmas In Hell Festival. Tonight’s crowd have added festive elements to their regular metal uniforms; tattooed skin is garlanded with tinsel, headbangers lose their elf hats on the sticky floor; angel wings are crushed against bodies in the pit; there are even, somewhat incongruously, sparkling devil horn headbands. Mikko has also been persuaded to don a red and white Santa hat, which he wears with an expression of grim acceptance. Tonight he has been unable to reach a state of flow, the emotional zone that he always craved where he thought of nothing but the notes, when the sounds would envelop his mind and he was at peace. The crowd would not realise of course, they saw his lightning fingers, his thrusting tongue, his demonic eyes, and were satisfied with his performance. But behind those eyes tonight, the musical affect would not come. His eyes were as mirrored glass. He looked for her in the crowd, hopelessly, knowing she wouldn’t be there. As usual, images of the past overwhelmed him, but this time of the recent past. He kept seeing Helen’s face, and then he saw that nun, that fucking horrible fat nun with the scrubbed reddish face and the shopping bags, who had looked at him as if he was the devil incarnate. And then he realised that he had seen that face somewhere else. Still scrubbed and plain and with that judgemental expression, but younger and thinner this time. On a photo, a grainy photo, smiling in front of a church, with a group of other young people. In Cambridge. In 1999. On the photo from Helen’s folder, that she had shown him on the aeroplane. Now Mikko’s eyes were wide. He needed to get to Helen. He continued his performance on autopilot, furiously calculating how he was going to do this, cursing her for not having a phone, cursing himself for being so far away. The crowd had somehow picked up on his intensified expression and were going wild, the many-headed hydra at full range of motion, with stage-diver and crowd surfers spread to all corners of the venue. When the song came to an end the hydra erupted into a deep roar, a thousand hands raised in the signal of the horns. As the approbation died down Mikko grabbed the microphone with one hand, pointed his other across the crowd, and shouted:

  ‘Alright you Christmas motherfuckers, this is gonna be our Last. Fucking. Song.’

  The rest of the band looked at each other uncertainly, since they were scheduled to play several more, but Mikko was the boss. They shrugged and launched into a death metal version of ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’.

  ***

  Two hundred miles away, Helen was also singing. Ever since Mikko had taken her on that impromptu visit to the Angel of Liverpool church a few weeks ago, she had dreamt of coming back, to recapture that feeling again. Tonight she had plucked up the courage, and despite having broken all her vows – indeed she was breaking the vow of obedience by even being here – she felt that God was somehow with her more than ever. The interior of the Angel church glittered with festive decorations, including an enormous Christmas tree, and red and green tinsel hung between the stone columns. A large nativity scene had been constructed in front of the altar, with rag dolls playing the parts of Mary, Joseph, the shepherds, kings and angels, and stuffed toys as the stable animals. The young children of the congregation were allowed to play with the nativity, and some of them ran up and down the aisles with the cuddly sheep, squabbling over who got to hold baby Jesus. Helen smiled as she thought to herself of the small plastic tree that Margaret conceded to be erected in the Order’s hallway. St Michael’s chapel at Argarmeols remained unadorned throughout Christmas save for a small wooden nativity set, and Helen imagined the expression that would form on Margaret’s face if a child attempted to touch one of those figures.

  She threw out her voice to ‘Hark The Herald Angels Sing’, holding up the hymn book but delighted that she remembered almost all the words from her childhood. When they reached the final verse, the church choir performed a harmonised melody over the top, while the organist pulled out the stops to emphasise the bassline. The whole effect was so beautiful that Helen was moved to tears.

  She thought of Mikko wistfully. Something was over, something was lost, but something else had begun. A new God was with her now – a kinder and more forgiving God. Soon it would be time to leave the convent, embark upon a new chapter. Faith was not stable; it could change, adapt, and it was not apostasy to see God in a new light. It was not apostasy to break vows that she no longer believed; perhaps had never truly believed. The Angel of Liverpool could be her new church; it was close to the university after all, and perhaps she could find a useful role for herself here, a more practical role in the community. She would join the choir, perhaps even lead the choir, perhaps learn to play the organ again. She was going to see her mother for Christmas, and after that things would change, she was sure of it. There had been no thunderbolts, no flashing lights, no apparitions from heaven, no revelation at all really. But something felt different. Perhaps this was as close to revelation as people ever got.

  When the service was over, people shook hands, hugged each other, bundled their families out into the freezing evening in a catharsis that again was not bleak and exhausting like one of Margaret’s sermons, but energising and warm. She pulled her coat close to her, wrapped her arms around herself and puffed the cold air away, darting across the busy road to where the Beetle was parked. She hopped in and rubbed her hands together, not looking forward to putting them on that cold steering wheel. It was pitch dark in the car and she fumbled to get the key into the ignition. But suddenly, alongside the familiar car smell of air freshener, carpet and petrol, she noticed that she could also smell another familiar, pungent scent, of unwashed wool and carbolic soap. She jumped in fright, her hand to her chest, when she realised there was someone in the passenger seat.

  ‘Oh my goodness, it’s you! You terrified me! What are you doing here in the car?’

  ‘You know, Helen dear,’ said a familiar voice, ‘you really must stop taking the car without asking. It’s becoming a terrible inconvenience for us.’

  Too late, Helen felt the presence of yet another person, behind her, then a sharp pain as something stabbed into her upper arm. Then everything went dark.

  18.

  Darren Swift was in his bathroom shaving carefully, more carefully than usual, trying to prolong the process of getting ready for as long as possible. It was the Crosby police station Christmas party night, and he had to strike that difficult boss’s balance between fun and responsibility. Not only that, but he had added an extra complication to the evening, one that had been praying on his mind almost as much as the Shepherd case. The murder investigation was over in time for Christmas, he had survived his first three months in the job, his probationary period, his first big case. But something didn’t sit right, and he was uneasy in more ways than one. He heard his phone ringing from where he’d left it on the bed.

  ‘It’s some foreign number,’ shouted Matt from the bedroom. ‘Do you want me to answer it for you?’

  ‘No, it’s probably one of those insurance scams, I’ve been getting loads. I need to put a block on me phone.’

  Matt came
up alongside him in the bathroom, placing the phone on the porcelain counter. ‘Are you alright? I can feel the stress coming off you from in there.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m alright. Just can’t really be arsed with tonight.’

  ‘Office parties are a minefield at the best of times. Are you sure you want me to come? I really don’t have to you know. I get it, I promise. You’re allowed to have a private life. Especially as a police officer. And especially after what you’ve been through.’

  Matt put a hand on Swift’s shoulder, and Swift stopped shaving and put one on top of it.

  ‘No, I want you to come, definitely. I really do.’

  His phone buzzed, and a text message appeared from Colette.

  Looking forward to seeing you tonight! Not my boss anymore! xx

  ‘Shit. I’ve been a dickhead about this for too long.’

  The Angel pub function room had served as the police station Christmas party venue for as long as anyone could remember. Why would they go anywhere else other than their local? Finger buffet, free drinks until nine, coloured lights flashing over the makeshift dancefloor. A couple of secretaries were already dancing tentatively, but most staff were still grouped around the bar, taking advantage of their extended happy hour.

  Swift turned the corner of South Road with a confident stride and some deep breaths, and he and Matt went into the pub and headed for the back room, where disco lights could be seen flashing through the coloured glass on the wooden doors, and ‘Come On Eileen’ was thumping through the speakers. He whispered to Matt, ‘I can’t promise you decent music.’ They swung through the wooden doors, and immediately there was that disorienting moment when you first see colleagues in a different context and you’re not sure you’re in the right place. But then there was Colette, and she looked beautiful in a sparkly dress and heels, with tinsel around her neck. A few introductions, handshakes, pints bought, and it was done. Perhaps they were surprised, perhaps they would talk about it afterwards, but nobody was the slightest bit bothered one way or the other, it seemed. The inner relief he felt was almost overwhelming. Matt whispered in his ear, ‘Bit of an anti-climax, wasn’t it? I told you – this is Liverpool. It was never going to be a thing.’