GodBomb!

by Kit Power

  Somebody wants answers.

  North Devon, England. 1995.

  A born-again revival meeting in a public building. The usual mix of the faithful, the curious, and the desperate. And one other – an atheist suicide bomber. He's angry. He wants answers. And if God doesn't come and talk to him personally, he's going to kill everyone in the building…

  “GodBomb! paints a huge panorama on a tiny canvas. Set entirely in one location, a community hall in a rural town, Kit Power uses the social microcosm of a Born Again Christian Revivalist meeting to explore a whole macrocosm of social and theological issues. As the stories of the believers and non-believers, held captive by a zealous suicide bomber, play out, the author examines how the need for absolute certainty in a secular society often erodes the personal redemption offered by blind faith. This is a violent and angry book but you will not put it down without being touched by the characters and their struggles as it hurtles towards a truly explosive finale.”

  Jasper Bark, award winning author of Prime Cuts, Stuck On You and Bloodfellas

  "Tense, thrilling and challenging. An explosive debut that shatters expectations."

  Daniel Marc Chant, author of Mr Robespierre

  "This cat's name says it all--"Power". His writing is like lighting a fuse, not the hissy super loud kind you see in cartoons...this is a slow burning quiet fuse. long enough that you almost forget about it until the explosion removes your face and limbs. He writes smart and honest and with no apologies."

  John Boden, author of DOMINOES

  "The result is dark and explosive. I can but congratulate Mr Power on this little masterpiece, an emotional rollercoaster that left me quite incapable of even drinking my tea – I just couldn’t tear my eyes away from the text."

  Anna Belfrage , www.thereview2014.blogspot.co.uk

  For my father, who is quite simply the smartest man I know. Thank you for teaching me early the power of the question. I have never forgotten it, and guess what? It still works.

  And for his mother, my Grandma Annie – 103 years old. I love you, Grandma. I find your lack of faith inspiring.

  The Players

  Leviticus

  Esther

  Psalms (I)

  Job

  Ecclesiastes

  Psalms (II)

  Isaiah

  Amos

  Psalms (III)

  Zechariah

  Chronicles (I)

  Chronicles (II)

  Genesis

  Revelation (I)

  Jonah

  Revelation (II)

  Daniel

  Romans

  Joel

  Numbers

  Kings

  Revelation (III)

  Luke

  Hosea

  Ezekiel

  Ezra

  Jude

  Exodus (I)

  Exodus (II)

  THE PREACHER – Male/43/Preacher

  DEBORAH – Female/20/Angry

  CHRIS – Male/19/Seeker

  TWITCH – Male/30’s/Alcoholic

  KATIE - Female/16/Churchgoer

  ALEX – Female/18/Just finished A-levels

  EMMA – Female/27/Eight and a half months pregnant

  MIKE – Male/37/Sax player

  “You shall not put the LORD your God to the test...” - Deuteronomy 6:16

  “If God does exist, he's a sadist.” - Annie Baume

  The following story is set in North Devon, England and takes place on July 23rd, 1995.

  1995. Blur Vs. Oasis is coming to a head. Thatcher is history, the Tories adrift in the long, drawn out dog days of the Major years. The month before, The Stone Roses pulled out of their headliner slot at the Glastonbury festival, and a well-respected but relatively lesser known band called Pulp got their moment to shine. They took it. Here in North Devon, we live in a land so close to Springsteen’s vision of heaven – “Cold beer at a reasonable price, and no fuckin’ cell phones!”

  By March of the following year, the Dunblane school shooting will effectively end access to handguns for the entire UK population, but right now, it’s still possible to own and shoot a pistol, if you’re prepared to jump through enough hoops.

  And somewhere in there, I attend my first and last born again church revival meeting.

  What follows is as close as I can get to a faithful rendition of what occurred. Details will be wrong. Names too, almost certainly. Nevertheless, this is as near as I can get to a true history of that day.

  Almost none of it happened. But this is how I remember it.

  “I have questions.”

  There’s a murmur, a ripple that rolls through the congregation.

  “I wanna know...”

  He drifts off, uncertain. Hesitant. But the preacher can see the kid’s eyes, and they are bright, alert. Intense. This could be the big one, thinks the preacher, right here. Barely five minutes into the service, this kid could open the floodgates.

  Play it slow.

  “You are amongst friends, son. Try not to be shy.” Smiling, open.

  The kid nods, swallows, tries a smile of his own.

  “What do you want to ask me?”

  “I want.. I want to know if you believe God is real. I mean, really real. You know?”

  There’re a few chuckles at that – some disguised as coughs, but most not. The kid’s eyes flick nervously, trying to locate the source of the sound. The preacher doesn’t take his eyes off the kid's face, but he tries frantically to send ‘shut the heck up’ thoughts to the crowd. Can’t they see how scared he is? Don’t they understand the importance of what he’s really trying to ask?

  “I do understand, son. I do. And yes, I believe God is really real.” Smiling, but not laughing. Reassuring. “God is as real as it’s possible to be. I know it. May I ask what you think?”

  Risky. Always risky, asking a question you don’t know the answer to, but he’s running on a strong intuition here, indistinguishable from divine guidance. This kid wants to share.

  He wants to believe.

  There’s a long pause. The preacher can see the kid’s face working it over, too much feeling and too few words. God bless country education. This boy needs the Lord so badly.

  “I don’t know, man. That’s the honest truth. I thought I did, but now I don’t.”

  The kid's voice is deep, resonant, and as he swallows, the preacher notes a fine layer of stubble on his chin. His eyes have been distant, wandering, but now they turn back to the preacher’s, and they are bright and sharp. Focussed. The preacher allows himself a moment to take caution: articulate or otherwise, the kid is smart.

  “I came here to find out.”

  The preacher’s smile splits to a grin. He allows his eyes to sparkle, just a little, his voice to waver just so – easy enough, because he’s now high as a kite. Thank you, Lord. Thank you for sending me this lamb, and thank you for giving me the power to help him. All glory to You. All glory to You.

  “Come up here, son. Come up on this stage.”

  The kid tries to take a step back, but of course he can’t, the bench is at his calves. He wobbles a little. The preacher wonders why the kid doesn’t take his hands out of his jacket pockets to steady himself instead of digging them in deeper, leaning forward to beat the tipping point. A blush rises on the kid’s face. The preacher holds his pose; arm outstretched in welcome, face open and honest.

  “God will give you the answers you seek. If you come...”

  “You promise?”

  The kid is bolt upright now, almost rigid, face rippling with emotions. “I can talk to God? He’ll come and talk to me?”

  The preacher allows the ghost of a laugh to enter his voice. “He’s already here, son. But yes, you’ll hear his voice...”

  The kid’s already moving, stepping out
into the aisle. Striding towards the stage, full of energy and purpose.

  “I hope you’re right, preacher, I surely do.”

  As he talks, his hands pop from his pocket. The left is just a closed fist, but the right contains a lump of black plastic, with a wire running up his sleeve.

  The preacher feels his smile freezing on his lips, his face become numb, his body locking into immobility.

  The kid’s left hand reaches for his zipper.

  “I want to talk to him, preacher. I need to talk to him.”

  The jacket falls open. Underneath, the preacher sees a lunatic tangle of wires and metal and strange grey blocks. The preacher hears some gasps from the front aisle seats as the turned heads take in the view, but it’s all happening from a long way away, and still he stands frozen in a statue of welcome. Still the kid advances with terrible pace towards the stage.

  “He and I need to have a very serious conversation.”

  The kid climbs onto the stage slowly, pushing up with his arms before swinging his legs under him. He squats, then stands, and stares the preacher in the eyes. He’s shorter, has to look up to make eye contact, but the preacher sees no fear, no nerves.

  In fact, he sees very little at all.

  “I’ve got enough explosives strapped to my body here to level this building and kill everyone inside. The first person who tries to run will end you all.”

  There’s a series of gasps, some sobs, nothing louder. The garden of a thousand sighs, thinks the preacher, randomly. Then on the heels of that thank God we said no children. Thank God for that, at least.

  Yes, thank God, no kids, but still, near to a full house. Seventy souls? Eighty?

  Dear Lord, what have we stumbled into?

  “I’ve tried, you know.”

  The kid has turned back to him, conversational, but the little SOB has obviously had some performance training because he’s speaking from the diaphragm. The preacher has no doubt that every word is carrying right to the back of the hall.

  “I’ve tried and tried. I’ve prayed till I cried, preacher, and I’ve cried till I puked, and you know what?”

  He holds up his empty hand and clicks his fingers. In the silence of the hall, the sound echoes like a pistol shot.

  “Nothing. Not. A. Thing.”

  Still conversational, but the preacher can feel a reservoir, an ocean of rage just beneath the surface of that calm.

  Dear Lord, help me now. Merciful God, help us all. I pray.

  “Well, I finally decided, enough is enough, you know. So, here we are. Here we all are.”

  He turns to his audience and raises his arms, showing off the device strapped to his chest, letting them all take it in. There’s a gasp/sigh/yelp/sob that threatens to erupt into a full-fledged panic, but he lifts his encumbered right hand to his mouth, index finger over his lips, and like a room full of schoolchildren, they fall silent again. Every eye on the lump of plastic.

  On the red button held down by his thumb.

  This is power, thinks the preacher, and shudders.

  “Here’s the deal, people. I’ve had enough of not knowing. Today, we’re all going to find out together if this man is telling the truth; if Jesus is the risen Lord, who died for all our sins. One way or another, you will all be witnesses.”

  He pauses, looking out over the crowd. To the preacher, the boy’s gaze seems like gunfire, heads dropping wherever his eyes fall.

  “So, this is the experiment. You, God’s chosen and true believers, start praying. Tell Him that I want to talk to Him, and tell Him what he should already know: that if He doesn’t speak to me, I’m going to kill all of us.”

  He turns to the preacher.

  “Would you like to lead them in prayer?”

  But for the first time in his adult life, the preacher can find no words. He merely stands there, frozen, heart hammering sickly in his chest, fear and misery shutting down all thought.

  The reply does not come from the preacher, but from the front row.

  “No.”

  She almost doesn’t realise that the word has come from her mouth. She jumps, first at the sound of her own voice, and then again as she looks up at the stage. The bomber has turned his focus on her. The preacher stands behind him; arms still open, face white.

  The bomber looks amused. Also furious. She straightens up in her chair, trying to seem defiant, but inside, her gut is churning, mind panicked; whatever wild energy that led her to speak has now deserted her utterly. She’s the kid in the class with her hand in the air but no answer, except this time, instead of laughter, there’s likely to be a fireball.

  “A dissenter?” He manages a laugh, but it’s an effort, she thinks, and the result is not good. Unless he was going for creepy, which she doesn’t rule out.

  He walks over to her and takes a seat on the edge of the stage, keeping the trigger arm straight as he does so. Up close, his face is even worse. His eyes are bright, but dead. The smile looks stitched on, painful. She feels a cramp of fear in her midsection; is aware her heart rate has increased, that she’s probably blushing.

  Somehow she manages to hold his gaze.

  “I like dissent. Encourage it. What’s your name?”

  “Deborah.”

  “Well, Deborah, I’d like to know more about you.” He nods slowly as he speaks, like she’s already agreed with him. “You’re clearly very brave, to speak up in such a dangerous situation.” He raises the fist with the trigger and leans forward slightly.

  She turns her head up, to follow his hand, and he brings the fist down, scarily fast, cracking his knuckles across the top of her head. There’s an instant starburst of pain, followed by an ache that spreads across her scalp. She cries out. Gasps close to shouts erupt around her.

  “I’m very good at spotting a lie, so tell the truth or I’ll hit you again. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you believe me?”

  “Yes.”

  Crack. This time the blow lands on her forehead, knuckles scraping down to the bridge of her nose. Tears squirt into her eyes. More gasps.

  “Do you?”

  “Yes!”

  His smile widens, becoming genuine. She sees his shoulders relax. She stares at the thumbnail holding down the button in the fist that just hit her. It appears to be winking at her.

  “Good! How old are you, Deborah?”

  “Twenty.”

  “And how long have you been a cripple?”

  The word burns her, adding more tears to the pain.

  “Seven years.”

  “Speak up, please.”

  “Seven years.”

  “I see. What happened when you were thirteen?”

  In her fear and pain, the story tumbles out of her, almost a babble of words.

  “I was running. I loved to run. I was running to the shop, fast as I could. Used my ears to look for traffic. The car was quiet, so I didn’t hear it. Ran right in front of it.”

  She’s told the story many times, but the situation she’s in now brings the whole thing back, vividly. The crunch sound, the feeling of being flipped, flying, total disorientation, followed by a thud that seemed to end the world.

  Then waking up in a hospital bed. All that pain in her head and back. None in her legs. The sad doctors and the x-rays. The tiny chances of recovery, and the dumb hope that gave her parents. Their fervour sure to secure the miracle. The worm of doubt that grew and grew in her mind as weeks became months became years of legs as meat, as weight, as dead wood.

  Her mind is so absorbed with the near total recall that she doesn't even register that he's spoken again, much less hear the words.

  The next blow comes in sideways, across her cheek, snapping her head to the side, and her left eye fills with water, temporarily blinded.

  “If you keep making me hit you, I might slip.” He wiggles his fist at her, the trigger switch flicking back and forth. She hears moans from around and behind. The kid beside her starts grunting in terr
or, ‘mu-mu-mu-mu-mu-mu’. She can see him twitching in his chair in her peripheral vision, his orange shirt seeming to writhe. She forces herself to ignore it, and the frantic shushing sounds his mother/nurse/carer is making.

  “I said, why are you here?”

  She feels the answer rise, but it’s shameful. She hesitates, trying to think of something else to say, some good lie, but he reverses his fist, pulls back, and she has no desire to turn the other cheek.

  “My parents. They brought me here. They made me come.” Left me here, she thinks but does not say. What would be the point? She's obviously alone.

  “Why?”

  “They think... They’re hoping for a miracle. They heard this man sometimes does healings, and they wanted it for me, so they asked... they made me come.”

  Her insides feel as though they are twisting up at the memory of this. The implacability of her parents, indifferent to her humiliation at the hand of crank after crank. Their insistence that this could be the one. If only she believed hard enough, if only she...

  And underneath, the fear that she is somehow to blame. That if her heart were only purer, her faith true...

  The bomber swings his stiff arm further back. His index finger uncurls from the black plastic and points at the priest.

  “Him?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you say, preacher? Think you can work a miracle, save this woman, get her up and walking? Perhaps we could all go home early. Do you think?” His eyes never leave hers as he speaks, and Deborah can feel the cruel amusement oozing from him. Under all the fear and all the pain and all the shame and all the confusion, Deborah finds a tiny seed of hatred.

  How fucking dare he?

  “I’d love to, but...”

  “Ah! Do you hear, Deborah? There’s a but!” He’s trying to smile through his sneer. It’s ugly.