Free The Swan Song of Doctor Malloy by Robert Power

above a bookstand asking, ‘Did we get here by evolution or Creation?’ I get the feeling the answer is preordained. The banner across the registration desk proclaims: ‘God’s Kingdom is at hand.’
    I must look slightly nonplussed, as Mary smiles reassuringly.
    â€˜Don’t worry, just follow me and all will be revealed. Here’s your delegate badge.’
    She carefully pins it to the lapel of my jacket. I like the intimacy, the feel of her hand against me.
    â€˜There,’ she says, straightening my jacket, ‘now you look the part.’
    I like her informality, her sense of fun. Unusual for a drug company rep, but not unwelcome.
    The inscription on my badge reads: ‘Anthony M. Woodford Congregation.’ In large letters around its circumference it announces: ‘Divine Help is at Hand.’
    â€˜Come on then,’ she says, ‘let me buy you a coffee and we can talk.’
    She seems to know where she’s going as we set off up the stairs to the mezzanine floor. All around us are men in suits of blacks and greys with identical haircuts and women in bilious frocks and sensible cardigans. Children looking like mini adults stay close to their parents. I get the feeling juvenile delinquency is not a major problem of family life. Quite what is, I dread to think.
    This is not where I expected to be, but I always welcome the bizarre. Experience has taught me perversity is found no further than the end of the street, or at the turn in the bend. With this thought in my mind, I follow Mary to the end of a queue leading to a self-service counter.
    â€˜So Mary F,’ I say, noting the badge she wears on her jacket, ‘are we to be knocking on the unsuspecting doors of Brighton, preaching salvation?’
    â€˜There’s a world out there that needs us. Well, you for sure. You and your wonderful syringe,’ she says with a smile.
    The plenary session must have just begun in the nearby auditorium. Video screens placed strategically around the cafeteria flick into life. Huddled around the monitors are mothers nursing babies and rocking prams; close by are suited stewards with clean faces and bright eyes. The man at the podium is small and bespectacled. His powerful voice seems too big for his body.
    â€˜Our Book of Mormon provides a perfect program for life. For individuals and societies. It embraces all aspects of our modern world and offers hope for the future.’
    â€˜That’d be nice,’ I say.
    â€˜We all need hope,’ adds Mary, moving forward with the queue.
    â€˜We live in a time of wars on many continents,’ continues the speaker. ‘Yet so many are uncertain, unsure. But, as on all issues, our book is clear and unequivocal. War is justified in defence against our enemies. We can only resort to the necessary violence of war to preserve lives. We must never act as the aggressor.’
    We shuffle forward, the smell of fresh coffee growing ever stronger.
    â€˜But, as in all things, be it war or ministry, we turn to the Holy Word of God for direction. Please open your Bibles to the book of St Luke, chapter six, starting at verse thirty-seven.’
    There is a ruffling of pages throughout the cafeteria. The queue moves with more urgency, the brethren anxious not to miss the pearls better to equip them for Christ’s second coming.
    â€˜â€œJudge not, and ye shall not be judged: condemn not, and ye shall not be condemned: forgive and ye shall be forgiven: give and it shall be given unto you; good measure, pressed down, and shaken together, and running over.”’
    There is a hold-up at the cash register; the queue grinds to a halt. The preacher’s words stay in my mind. “Give and it shall be given.” In spite of the disasters and chaos of my private life – the addictions, the broken relationships, the teenage daughter who cries herself to sleep and still wets her knickers at school – I have a purpose, a