Israel stood skulking until the rush and the high fives had died down, and then he wandered over.
“Hi!” he said.
“I’m sorry,” said the clipboard man. “The Retreat’s for under-eighteens only. But if you’re in need of a bed for the night-”
“Ha!” said Israel. “Very funny.” By the look on the man’s face Israel realized he wasn’t joking: he really thought he was homeless. “No. No. I’m not…homeless or anything.”
“Oh, apologies,” said the man. “I thought maybe you were…”
“No, no,” said Israel, tugging at his beard. Maybe he needed to shave.
“And you’re not here for the youth club?”
“No.”
“Ah. OK. Well, hi anyway. I’m Adam. Adam Burns.”
“Hello,” said Israel, shaking his proffered hand. So this, he was thinking, is what a schismatic looks like: a Club 18-30 holiday rep.
“And you are?” said Adam.
“Sorry. Israel. Armstrong. I was wondering if I could have a word with you, actually?”
“Now?” said Adam Burns.
“If possible, that would be great.”
“Well. That might be difficult, actually. It’s Retreat night, you see.”
“Yes, I understand. I just wanted to talk to you about Lyndsay Morris.”
“Ah. Terrible,” said Adam Burns, shaking his head. “We’re all so worried about her.” He looked Israel up and down. “Look. Just give me a few minutes, and I’ll see what I can do?”
“I’d appreciate that, thank you,” said Israel.
Israel hung around inside the entrance to the halls, where young people were milling around aimlessly, and where it was possible to hear loud music playing from one room, people singing along to a song that seemed to consist simply of the words “Our God reigns” repeated again and again, and again and again.
Adam had disappeared and then came back a few minutes later, clipboardless, his smile intact.
“Do you want to come into the prayer room?” he asked, touching Israel on the arm.
“Yeah. That’d be great,” said Israel. He’d never really liked men who touched him on the arm.
The room was empty and clearly used as a nursery or a crèche the rest of the time: there were terrible finger paintings and laminated posters with the alphabet and numbers. Adam and Israel squatted down on a couple of miniature plastic chairs.
“So, Israel?” said Adam Burns. “Unusual name.”
“I suppose,” said Israel.
“You’re Jewish?”
“No. I’m a Hindu.”
“Really?”
“No. No. I’m joking.”
“Oh,” said Adam Burns, who despite his hilarious Hawaiian shirt was clearly not a man who was easily amused. “How can I help you?”
“Well, I wanted to ask you about Lyndsay Morris.”
“Yes. We’re all so terribly worried about her. Are you a friend or a family member?”
“No. I’m not, actually. I’m a…librarian.”
“OK,” said Adam Burns, looking momentarily confused: the old L-word again.
“And we are…helping to coordinate the police search?” suggested Israel.
“Oh, really?”
“Yes.”
“Right.” Adam-perhaps because he was a good Christian-seemed to take Israel’s claim at face value.
“Is it right that she would come here?” said Israel, seizing the advantage of Adam’s obvious credulity.
“Yes. Yes. She did.”
“And she came here often?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know her well?”
“I think you could say that, Israel, yes. I’m privileged to say that I was one of those present when she gave her life to Christ.” Adam smiled the kind of inward smile that expressed itself outwardly as a smirk. “Sorry. I should have offered: can I get you a cup of tea?”
“No thanks. Erm. You say she gave her life to Christ?”
“Yes.”
“Erm. You mean she became a Christian?”
“Absolutely, Israel, that’s right.”
“When was that?”
“That was maybe just a few months ago.”
“But she was a Goth as well?”
“Yes. I think that’s right. But the Bible teaches us, Israel, that Jesus died for all our sins.”
“Right.”
“His work of atonement was for all, whoever we are.”
“Even Goths,” said Israel.
“Absolutely,” said Adam Burns. “And Muslims and Jews and prostitutes and sinners of every kind.”
Israel felt a little uncomfortable being lumped together with the world’s outcasts. “We believe in one body of Christ,” continued Adam Burns.
“Uh-huh,” said Israel. “Really? What about the…I mean, I hope you don’t mind if I ask about the…split with Tumdrum First Presbyterian?”
Adam Burns looked sharply at Israel, as though someone had mentioned supralapsarianism.
“Why are you asking?”
“Just. I’m…interested. I must have read about it in the…Impartial Recorder?”
“Well, it was really a doctrinal matter,” said Adam Burns.
“Right,” said Israel. “And what doctrine exactly was it that you disagreed about?”
“You’re a theologian?”
“No, just…an interested layman.”
Adam sat up straight, put his shoulders back, and looked Israel in the eye, as though delivering a lecture or a reprimand. “Well, first of all, the Presbyterian Church in Ireland has become home to a number of unscriptural practices and traditions, and at Tumdrum’s First Presbyterian Church in particular-”
“The Reverend Roberts’s church?”
“That’s right. And under the”-and here Adam Burns coughed, as though pausing nervously in confession-“guidance of the Reverend Roberts, Tumdrum Presbyterian has been teaching a kind of liberal humanism in the guise of the Gospel, which I as a Christian would have to reject.”
“Right.”
“The Reverend Roberts, I’m afraid”-and he coughed again and looked away from Israel-“I would have to say is a false teacher.”
“A false teacher.”
“That’s correct. The Reverend Roberts has replaced the true Gospel with something more commercially acceptable to-”
“Commercially acceptable?” said Israel, unable to work out what on earth was commercially acceptable about the Reverend Roberts.
“Yes. Something that sells more easily to people. Jesus said, ‘I am the Way, the Truth and the Life, there is no way to the Father except through me.’”
“Right.”
“And I’m afraid I don’t hear that simple, plain Gospel message being preached by the Reverend Roberts.”
“So you think he’s too…lenient?”
“Well, that’s certainly a layman’s way of expressing it, yes.”
“I’m definitely a layman,” said Israel.
“Can I ask if you’ve read the New Testament, Israel?”
“Not often,” said Israel. “No.”
“And have you ever considered your future, Israel?”
“Well, again, no, alas, not often,” said Israel. He thought about that brownstone in New York, his true home and his future, which had maybe a little balustrade out front, and he thought about breakfast with Paul Auster, and lunch with Philip Roth, and cocktails with friends from the New Yorker, and returning home late at night to listen to the sound of John Coltrane playing A Love Supreme. The utterly complete, beautiful, urban bourgeois solidity of his unfulfillable fantasy life…
“You are aware we are living in the end-times?” Adam was saying.
“Are we?” said Israel.
“Look around you,” said Adam.
Israel glanced around the room.
“Erm…”
“Not just in Tumdrum. Around the world. Economic catastrophes. Natural disasters. Tsunamis,” said Adam. “Hurricane Katrina. Hurricane Wilma.”
“Ah, right, I see what you mean.”
“Disease,” continued Adam. “Famine. Strife. War.”
“Yes,” agreed Israel. But Adam wasn’t listening: he was preaching. He’d got into a rhythm. He was even rocking slightly on his seat.
“Just take the weather. Swollen rivers. Devastating floods. Southern China, northern India, Pakistan, Bangladesh. In Europe, Israel, last year people died from the extreme heat-and this was in Europe, mind.”
“Right.”
“Drought and wildfires.”
“Well, you’re certainly painting a picture of-”
“It’s not my picture I’m painting, Israel. It’s the Book of Revelation. The consequences of man’s rebellion against God.”