The Crucifixion and Resurrection of Malachi the Queer

by Damian Jay Clay

  As much as I want to, I can’t see my mum and dad ever deciding such a holiday would be a good idea and, anyway, they would doubtless end up preaching outside the on-site shops and driving everyone mad with their bat-shit crazy religion.

  I turn the page to see my man on the beach again and... nothing.

  My doctors said there could be other side effects to what happened to me, other than the ones we were already aware of.

  My balls dropped six months ago and I haven’t been able to give myself an erection in all that time and though I saw my doctor only a week ago for my yearly check up, I didn’t dare ask her about it, not with my mum in the room.

  My only reassurance is what it said when I looked up erectile dysfunction on-line: as long as you wake up with hard-on then the issue is not physiological and only mental. So I shouldn’t have been surprised. I know I’m mental. The kids at school don’t let me forget it.

  When I get downstairs my dad is nowhere to be found, which means he’s outside in the car with the engine running – a tactic devised to make anyone he gives a lift to feel like they’re wasting his time. I leave the house through my mum and dad’s office and jump into the car, an old Corsa. He takes off before I get a chance to put my seatbelt on then shouts at the traffic as soon as we reach the clogged roundabout.

  Tonight is the end of term disco. That’s not to say there aren’t others. At my school we have them once a week, every Thursday. I only attend John the Baptist Christian School two days a week. I often wonder why they call it Christian School. Maybe they believe that it being called John the Baptist school wouldn’t make that clear enough?

  I only do religious studies, social studies and sports at school and the only reason I go there at all is because my mum thinks I should socialise and make friends but she’s never understood what kind of torture that means for me.

  Sarah Davies, the one girl who does give me the time of day, tells me it’s because I’m so freaky to talk to and never smile. “Your eyes, it’s like there’s nothing there behind them. It’s like you’re looking out from an empty house where all the lights have been turned off – you can see us but we can’t see you.”

  I told her that it’s because of the illness, because of what happened to me but it doesn’t seem to matter because it’s how I am and that’s how people react to me. It’s not that I can’t smile, it’s that I’ve never been able to do it naturally. This is something everyone takes for granted and though I know that in social situations smiles are important, I can only put one on and I never seem to remember to do so.

  I hear the names they call me at school: Freak Boy, Weirdo, Mal the Mong, Mad Malachi, Mental Malachi, Mad Mental Malachi, Creepy Kai (alliteration being the most coveted skill in insult writing).

  It probably doesn’t help that I’m only there two days a week but I can only just stand that. Still, even I’ve noticed that over the past year a whole new set of insults about me have become popular: Queer, Faggot, Gay Boy, Fudge Packer and so on. I don’t know how they know that I’m these things. Did I look at other boys too much in the showers? Is it the way I talk? My voice is somewhat high pitched. Is it because I was the last to hit puberty in my year? Is it the way I move my hands? Is it because I don’t smile? Is it because I’ve already taken seventeen GCSEs and three A levels and it’s because they hate me? I’m glad they haven’t found a homophobic insult that starts with an M.

  Religious and social studies are the only classes in school that are done in groups. Everything else is taught by something they call individuated learning. The students sit at computers and work through texts and assignments at their own pace. And every subject, every test, every question is somehow linked to our religion. Like in maths:

  If John converts 10 people to Christianity in a week and Jane converts 5 people a week, how long will it take for them to convert 180 people?

  In religious studies we spend about ten percent of the time learning about other religions, and how stupid the hell-bound heathens are for believing in such nonsense, and the other ninety percent of the time we learn about the only true religion, Christianity, which by a strange coincidence happens to be the religion we follow.

  My parents want me to be a pastor when I grow up, like my dad. Even my sister, Isla, is studying theology at Warwick university. Thinking about it, when I say want I actually mean expect. Even Isla expects it. Last weekend after church she asked me if I’d be going to Warwick like her, mum and dad did. I told her to fuck off and leave me alone. I hope at least she’s beginning to get the message. I might have to lie to my parents but I don’t have to lie to her. I’m going to Oxford and I won’t be studying theology. I'll be studying physics.

  My dad says nothing about what he saw earlier but it’s not surprising. In our house you’re never punished on the day you do something. It’s not unusual for a few days to pass and then you get called in by my dad to talk about what happened. The punishment always involves being hit in some way. He believes in the bible, literally, including that spare the rod and spoil the child bullshit. Though he uses his hand more than a rod.

  When we get to my school my dad gets out with me and walks over to Mr Allen, the head teacher, who’s welcoming all the students. Mr Allen turns and gives all his attention to my dad. He’s part of the club, you see? The respectable Baptist community club. When my dad comes into school it’s like they’ve been granted a visit from the Queen or Jesus Christ himself.

  I leave them to it and walk into the cafeteria where I'm hit by the smell of a thousand, stale, lard-fried chips, which for some reason I can't work out makes me hungry. I get a coke and go into the gym where the disco is and hide in the darkest corner I can find. Later, everyone will be in here and I’ll go to the cafeteria to eat some of the buffet that’s still left. It will be stale pizza, flabby, unseasoned quiche and all the other things that nobody else wanted but at least I’ll be almost alone.

  The DJ station is in the far corner of the hall and being run by two of the sixth formers who play nothing but old sounding disco songs, none of which are familiar to me. A lot of the girls are up and dancing, while only the older boys seem to have the nerve to join in. I don’t dance. I’ve never danced. I’d not even do it as a dare if I had friends to dare me.

  This was how these nights went, with me sitting on the sidelines – trying to stay out of the way of people being the most significant function of the equation and hoping I live to see the parting hour. One might ask why I bother to come here but it’s really that I don’t have a choice. My mum insists I should socialise with everyone because it will help me fit in at school. She doesn’t understand that I'll never fit in at school because I’m a liar, because I’ve never told my parents I don’t believe in their religion any more, that I don’t believe in any religion, or any god. I’ve never told them that I’m gay and that I’ll never give them grandchildren. As far as they’re concerned I’m precisely the child they want me to be and though, not popular, I’m the kind of child who tries to make it seem like everything is okay, like I’m normal. It’s a lie but a lie which protects both them and me. I don't lie to myself though – I know unerringly who and what I am.

  Would I ever tell them I’m an atheist? Would I ever tell them that I’m gay? No! Right now I don’t know which they would see as the greater crime. I think dad now suspects I’m gay and I’ll be punished for the gay wanking tomorrow and maybe that is the lesser of the two crimes. My dad says atheists are arrogant for turning their backs on god and saying he doesn’t exist. He says they do it because they feel angry at god.

  That’s what we call a straw man argument. It’s where you take someone else’s position and then misrepresent it so you can make it sound stupid and simple to argue against.

  In actuality what I say is that no religion has met a claim of evidence which would demonstrate it to be true. So I reject all religions on that basis. That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t listen to and examine new evidence – you have to have an open mind. That’s t
he same for all the atheists I’ve ever read about: if there is no evidence then why should you believe?

  My dad would never understand that, no matter how slowly I explained it to him. I don’t think there would be any way back if I told him I was an atheist.

  Sarah sits next to me without asking, all brown pigtails in her best lavender church dress. “You alright?”

  Sarah occupies the periphery of the most unpopular set of girls in our year. I guess that’s why she feels she can leave them and come talk to me but I wish she wouldn’t. You see, there's a balance you have to maintain when you lie all the time. You can't let people in because there are unexploded landmines inside you that they can set off and when that happens you become a casualty of the truth.

  “I’m fine.” I don’t even turn to look at her.

  “I saw your dad.” She leans forward so she can look me in the eyes. It’s so bloody irritating. If I don’t want to look at her she should respect it. “He was talking to Mr Allen.”

  “Did you hear what it was about?” Now I sit up and stare right at her.

  She shrugs. “They were away from everyone. When are you going to Sri Lanka?”

  “Next week. I need the toilet.” I get up and walk off and she follows me into the corridor. Then I see Nicolas Finn and his gang of Neanderthals standing around outside. They're all wearing jeans, black sweatshirts and expensive trainers – the uniform of the moron. Nicolas is the tallest and beefiest boy in the school and gets away with slapping anyone he wants. As soon as they see me the regular abuse starts.

  “Where you going, Fag Boy? Gonna wank someone off in the toilets?”

  I’m so used to this I’ve become inure. I push past them as best I can, Sarah still chasing after me.

  “No point running after him,” says Finn, “he only likes cock.”

  “Well then, it's a good job you don't have one!" shouts Sarah.

  Finn's gang all laugh until he slaps one of them round the face.

  I run in to the toilets, into a cubicle and lock the door. This makes me so angry. Why the hell do I even have to be here? It's not the name calling or the tacit threats of physical violence which are always there but that I have to put up with it for the wish of my parents. If I could, I’d stay in here all night till my dad came to pick me up but I know Sarah will be waiting outside for me, so I exit the cubicle, wash my hands and leave.

  As soon as I’m outside one of Finn’s cronies throws the contents of his plastic cup at me: orangeade. He gets me right on the crotch which was clearly his intentional target and then they all start laughing.

  “Look,” says Finn, “the faggot wet himself!”

  “Leave him alone,” shouts Sarah. Not that it will do any good.

  “Grab him,” says Finn.

  I don’t stand a chance as they all pounce on me. One on each arm and Finn with his arm around my throat. They hustle me along the corridor and I don’t know if I’m letting them do it because I’m scared or because I know I don’t have a chance of resisting. I want to fight back. I want to hit them and hurt them but I’m not built to be a fighter.

  This here is the height of their religion – their god’s love in action. The result of the constant drilling into their heads that there is only one acceptable morality and that anyone who is in the slightest bit different from it must be singled out and punished until they conform.

  This is why I hate them. This is why I hate this school.

  The cafeteria is full with over a hundred students from all the years, teachers and parents too. The gang lets me go as they push me inside and I stumble and scarcely manage to stay on my feet.

  “Mad Malachi’s wet himself!” Shouts Finn. “Has anyone got a change of knickers?”

  Then everyone starts to laugh and I turn to get back out but Finn and his friends push me away so I have to run through the cafeteria with the front of my bleached jeans soaked in orangeade and everyone thinking I’ve had an accident.

  My heart races and the inside of my mouth dries out and my throat begins to hurt with the tightness of breathing but I know if I can get away without talking to anyone I won’t cry. I don’t want to cry in front of Finn or his gang again. That’s the victory they most wanted.

  I run through the school gates and only stop when I can’t run any more and I’m half way down the street. I bend over double, fighting to catch my breath. I’m so unfit; it doesn’t take much to wind me. I force the shame back inside me and I know I am past crying. I can feel sweat all over my back and forehead. It’s a cloudless night and the air is cooling down. A light wind blows down the street and begins to dry me off but it will take all night for the orangeade to dry and even then it will leave a stain, so there’s no way I’m going back in.

  I’m not sure if my dad is still in there or not. He always picks me up at 10pm when the dance finishes but that’s two hours away. Then Sarah arrives and I walk away from her.

  "Mal, are you all right?" She paces behind me, saying it again and again as she tries to catch up.

  "I'm fine. I'm going home." I don't want anyone near me right now. I know what will happen.

  I feel her hand on my shoulder and she tries to turn me round. I pull away and keep walking. Then she runs in front of me and grabs me in a hug and I fall to my knees hysterical, crying and so terribly out of control. She murmurs tender words.

  Chapter Three

  The next morning I make chorizo and eggs for my family. I cut an entire chorizo sausage curl into medium slices and fry it until crisp in two ounces of butter. While that's doing I break and beat nine eggs (two per person plus one extra) adding milk, salt and pepper. When the sausage is crisp I add in the batter and give it a mix round with a flat wooden spoon so all the juices from the chorizo and butter mix in with the eggs. The trick with it is to leave it for a moment so it almost forms a loose omelette in the bottom of the pan, then take it off the heat and stir till it is cooked through but still moist, while, at the same time, trying to keep it in large pieces. Then I serve onto four plates and top with some grated Manchego and dust with smoked paprika and fresh ground black pepper.

  Food is one of the things I am obsessed about and at least no one in my family complains about that. The thing that annoys me most about eating with my parents is saying grace. Thank you, Lord for the food you have provided. No – thank me – I bloody cooked it! Still, I put my hands together and close my eyes. Anything to keep up the illusion.

  They make little noise as they are busy eating. Isla puts salt and tomato sauce on hers, which pisses me off. I mean, what's the point of me cooking for her and making sure everything is perfectly seasoned so she can ruin it with unnecessary condiments?

  Nothing is brought up about anything that happened yesterday, either the gay wanking or why I walked three miles home by myself. I threw my jeans in the wash so no one would ask questions.

  Isla has been home from university for four weeks and is seriously getting on my nerves. First there was the way she now dressed. I mean she never looked like a normal teenager because my parents don't allow clothes which they consider to be too revealing. Now she wears dreadful, ankle-length skirts and flower patterned blouses which make her look like a middle aged drama teacher or my mum.

  Mum is shorter than Dad, only an inch or two taller than me, so I know it's her height genes I got landed with. She has long curly red hair which comes down to her hips and is wearing her brown, ankle-length dress with the embroidered, red floral pattern.

  Isla squirts more tomato sauce on her eggs. "Dad, what do you think about Kalam's cosmological argument for god?"

  Here we go. Since she got back, every conversation around the table is about theology and philosophical evidence for god, which I could refute in about twenty seconds if it wasn't for the deal I've made with myself.

  "I think it's a sound argument." My dad picks up a slice of bread, butters it and then puts some of the eggs on top, folding it into a sandwich.

  That is not how this dish is mea
nt to be eaten. The eggs melt the butter which drips out all over his t-shirt, which proves my point.

  "I've used it myself in several debates. Oh dear..." He picks up a napkin and smears the grease around a bit.

  I say nothing. It's all part of the deal. All of this began two years ago, before I knew I was gay, when I realised that my parents' religion was a load of bullshit. I would later go on to discover that all religion was bullshit (about half an hour later). I was twelve years old at the time so my options were limited. My situation was such (is still such) that it prevented me from being able to do anything about it. I'm the son of the pastor of a Baptist church with one of the largest congregations in London. There is no way I can openly be an atheist. So I made a deal with myself that I would play the part of a believer, especially as far as my parents, school and church were concerned, until I was able to escape this lunatic asylum. This decision was only reinforced when I realised that I was gay and that was a fact they would never be able to accept.

  In church, in his books and on television, my dad says, "Love the sinner, hate the sin." And what he doesn't realise is that when you blindly accept the concept of sin, the sin and the sinner become the same thing. However, in private he lets his true opinions slip out. He calls gay people perverts and tells me to stay away from them. Pervert – something about that word makes me feel sick.

  And so the deal with myself expanded to include my sexuality. I was a gay and an atheist. A gay atheist: a gaytheist. I had to hide it all and keep it well out of sight until I could leave home and live my own life without their unknowing condemnation. I don't know how I let it happen but over time it expanded to me being as agreeable as possible about everything.

  I've read books in the library and posts on internet forums about what to do if you're a teen struggling with your sexuality but I'm not a teen struggling with my sexuality – I'm a teen struggling with my parents' stupid delusions.