what? Recently, Iâve started to think about churches. Church and God and the afterlife. Iâm trying to work out what to expect next. I canât remember when I was last inside a church. It was probably someoneâs wedding. Thirty, maybe more years ago? It might even have been my own wedding. Iâve never given religion much thought, beyond that itâs a convenient excuse for lots of wars and lots of hate, but since Iâve had to organise my own funeral, Iâve started to give the whole idea a bit more consideration.
I donât believe in the type of afterlife I was taught about in primary school. I cannot accept a heaven, located in the clouds, where a bearded guy with a halo mans the pearly gates, much like a bouncer at a nightclub. I canât imagine St Peter stood with a list of the names of those who have earned access to heaven, shaking his head (with a mixture of smug arrogance and fake regret) at those who had sinned and are going to have to wander along to hell to spend eternity there instead. It doesnât make sense. There are practical considerations, such as how do the rejects get from the cloud to hell once they are denied access? Is there some sort of invisible firemanâs pole that they have to slide down, or a rubbish chute that they are shoved down? Why wouldnât the evil guys just storm the gates of heaven and demand entrance? Bad guys arenât normally known for accepting rules and limits; isnât that the point? What could one old bloke do (saint or not) against a crowd of murderers, thieves, paedophiles, warmongers and mercenaries? Theyâd have him. And at the opposite extreme, why would the Devil be up for torturing the villains when they go to hell? Arenât those guys the ones who have been out doing his work, in which case wouldnât he welcome them with open arms?
Come on in, Idi Amin, take a seat right there between Stalin and Hitler. No, not that one, weâre keeping that for Kony.
Why would he burn them in eternal fires? Unless Iâve got that wrong. Maybe I wasnât listening properly at school. Maybe God is in charge of hell too, but if thatâs the case, how come the Devil pops up to earth so frequently? Is there an open-door policy for him? Why doesnât God just keep him locked up?
I donât question why God might torture the evil. That bit I get.
But Iâm not dead yet. I know as much because I can see the other patients lying in the beds opposite and next to me. Thereâs the bulky, hard-faced nurse who has let herself go, slouched by the doorway, and there is my bedside table. Unlike all the other bedside tables, itâs not cluttered with get-well-soon cards and flowers; all that my table accommodates is a plastic jug of water and a plastic beaker. I am still inside my life, such as it is. Besides, I know Iâm alive because of the pain. The excruciating pain that has soused my body for months now pounds with an angrier intensity. My throat is so sore and dry that it feels as though someone has ripped out my tongue. But no, itâs still there. I edge it carefully on to my lips in a doomed attempt to moisten them. It feels like sandpaper ripping against wood.
Someone is sitting next to my bed. The man stands up and reaches over me; he picks up the plastic beaker and brings it to my lips. I take a sip and then ask, âWho the hell are you?â
The man doesnât answer. I eye him suspiciously. Is he a doctor? He isnât wearing a white coat, but then some of the senior consultants donât. He needs to shave, which suggests he might be a doctor shoved up at the coal-face end, too busy for personal grooming, but this man does not seem to be in a hurry. The air surrounding him is still.
âIâm â¦â The man hesitates.
Pain has eroded away what little patience I ever possessed. âDonât you know who you are?â I demand crossly.
âDonât you?â
I