Free State We're In by Adele Parks Page A

what? Recently, I’ve started to think about churches. Church and God and the afterlife. I’m trying to work out what to expect next. I can’t remember when I was last inside a church. It was probably someone’s wedding. Thirty, maybe more years ago? It might even have been my own wedding. I’ve never given religion much thought, beyond that it’s a convenient excuse for lots of wars and lots of hate, but since I’ve had to organise my own funeral, I’ve started to give the whole idea a bit more consideration.
    I don’t 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 can’t 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 doesn’t 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 fireman’s pole that they have to slide down, or a rubbish chute that they are shoved down? Why wouldn’t the evil guys just storm the gates of heaven and demand entrance? Bad guys aren’t normally known for accepting rules and limits; isn’t that the point? What could one old bloke do (saint or not) against a crowd of murderers, thieves, paedophiles, warmongers and mercenaries? They’d have him. And at the opposite extreme, why would the Devil be up for torturing the villains when they go to hell? Aren’t those guys the ones who have been out doing his work, in which case wouldn’t he welcome them with open arms?
Come on in, Idi Amin, take a seat right there between Stalin and Hitler. No, not that one, we’re keeping that for Kony.
Why would he burn them in eternal fires? Unless I’ve got that wrong. Maybe I wasn’t listening properly at school. Maybe God is in charge of hell too, but if that’s the case, how come the Devil pops up to earth so frequently? Is there an open-door policy for him? Why doesn’t God just keep him locked up?
    I don’t question why God might torture the evil. That bit I get.
    But I’m not dead yet. I know as much because I can see the other patients lying in the beds opposite and next to me. There’s 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, it’s 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 I’m 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, it’s 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, ‘Who the hell are you?’
    The man doesn’t answer. I eye him suspiciously. Is he a doctor? He isn’t wearing a white coat, but then some of the senior consultants don’t. 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.
    â€˜I’m …’ The man hesitates.
    Pain has eroded away what little patience I ever possessed. ‘Don’t you know who you are?’ I demand crossly.
    â€˜Don’t you?’
    I