Mo Hayder: Pig Island

Malachi Dove doesn't bound on stage. He comes on quietly, sort of shuffling, clearing his throat and tucking the specs in his jacket pocket, like he's going to deliver a theology lecture. He sits on a little stool and looks seriously and thoughtfully into the dark auditorium while the place erupts: cheers, hoots, promises of undying love echoing off the walls. He waits till the noise dies down. Then he moves the microphone to his mouth, clumsily, banging it on his nose. He grins at the mistake. 'Uh — sorry,' he goes. 'Technology's not my strong point.'

The audience erupts again, applauds like crazy.

He holds up his hands modestly. 'Look … let me explain who I am.' The congregation goes quiet. The assistants take their seats at the edge of the stage. Malachi Dove waits. Then he fixes the audience with his pale eyes. There's silence in the place now. 'Whatever you think,' he says, 'we are all religious. We may believe in different prophets. My prophet is Jesus. Yours may be … I don't know, Muhammad perhaps? Or Krishna? Some of you may think you have no prophet at all, and that, too, is fine. We don't check your faith at the door.'

A murmur of laughter goes round the hall. They know that twinkle in his eye, that ironic twitch of a smile.

'But one thing is sure. We all believe in the same God. I know your God. And you know my God. Maybe by a different name, but you know him.' He breaks off and grins again, throwing a hand at the audience, like they just told him a risque joke. 'OK, don't panic. I'm not going to quote the Bible at you.'

More laughter. Finn nudges me. He's got the mic poking out of the little zip-up bag now, like the nose of an animal, pointed in the direction of the stage. We're waiting for the wackiness to start so we can get outraged. On stage Malachi holds up his empty hands. He makes a great pantomime of studying first one bare palm, then the other.

'Nothing special about these hands. Is there? Just your average pair of hands. I don't pretend to have power in them. I can't send a lightning bolt from them. I know all about my hands because I, like you, have not been content to believe what the tent-show evangelists tell me. I have made it my business to study the subject. Did you know, for example, that a soldier in the victorious army will survive wounds that can kill a soldier in the defeated army? Did you know that? Do you understand the dance of chemicals in your body? Your body …'

He points a finger into the audience. He's smiling, and maybe he's already got to me on some level, because I ignore this sudden image I get in my head that he's not a human but a husky dog, staring into my eyes from the stage.

'Your body can heal itself. It has the knowledge. It only needs the right chemicals. Since the day I left my parents' home I have never crossed the threshold of a medical professional. And I never will!' He looks at his hands again, one at a time, like they're a mystery to him. 'My faith allows me to channel my endorphins. And with a faith this strong I can channel it to you, too.'

'What crap,'' Finn mutters.

'What bukkakes,' I say. We both shake our heads. But we're subdued, and we're not meeting each other's eyes. We've both got a glimpse of what Finn's ma saw in Pastor Malachi Dove. Straight off when the lights come on, a healing line forms in the aisle going to the stage. The disabled are wheeled out and helped on to the stage by relatives. One of Malachi's helpers takes them by the arm: Asuncion (we find out her name from the crowd), a total vision of horniness with her hair in a long squaw plait snaking down the back of her white judo jacket, keeps production-lining these invalids up on to the stage, keeping a hand on their arms, holding them back until Malachi is ready. Then she nudges them forward, half lifting them, half talking them up on to the stretcher where they lie on their backs staring up at Malachi, who stands above them, back to the audience, both hands on the stretcher, resting his weight there, his head bowed and eyes closed, like he's waiting for a migraine to go. He doesn't pray. He just waits. No hellfire. After a few moments he places his hand on the body part and closes his eyes again. Then he lifts his hands and whispers something to the patient, who gets up and leaves. Or is helped away by relatives.

'Go on,' whispers Finn, nudging me. 'Go on. Get up there.'

I get up and join the queue. I feel like a twat because I'm the tallest. All I can see in front and behind and to the side of me are Sunday hats, little blue and pink feathers quivering in the netting. After about half an hour waiting I'm up on the stage under the heat of the spotlights. Malachi glances at me, and for a moment, seeing my height and my strength, he hesitates. But if he thinks it's a trick he hides it.

'What's your name?'

'Joe.'

'What part of you has brought you here tonight, Joe? What part of your body?'

'Bowels,' I say, because that's how Finn's ma went and it's the first thing that comes into my head. 'It's a cancer. Sir.'

I get on the stretcher, thinking about Finn sniggering in the audience. Malachi stands above me, head bent, eyes closed, sweat coming out from under his blond thatch. I register the pores in his cheeks. I see he's wearing face powder or foundation. Suddenly I'm totally interested in what he's going to say.

After what seems like for ever, he raises his head and frowns at me. 'How did they know?' he goes, in a hushed voice. 'How could they tell? When it's so small, how could they tell?'

I swallow. Suddenly I don't want to laugh any more. 'When what's so small?' I say. There's a lump in my throat. 'When what's so small?'

'The tumour. It's less than a centimetre across. How did they even know it was there?'

'What happened?' Finn says.

I've come off stage. I'm covered with sweat and my head's throbbing. 'Two weeks,' I mutter. I sit there sweating, rubbing my stomach under my jeans waistband. 'Two weeks. Then I come back to a prayer meeting, and I'm going to pass the tumour.'

'Pass the tumour? What the fuck does that mean, "pass the tumour"?' Then he stops. He's seen my face. 'Oakesy?' he goes, suddenly concerned. 'Oakesy, what is it?'

'I dunno,' I mutter, getting unsteadily to my feet. 'I dunno. But I want to get out of here. I think I want to speak to a doctor.'

The next ten days are a blur. I go from health professional to health professional. Finn trails along behind me, bemused and worried. I eat up half my aunt's inheritance trying to get a primary-care practitioner to refer me for a cancer test on the grounds a faith-healer has told me I'm dying. I end up stumping up for a faecal occult blood test in the Presbyterian hospital. The doctor, I remember, is called Leoni. It's in grey pastel letters on her badge. I remember staring at her name while she reads me the results, my heart banging in my ribcage.

Negative. No tumour. No cancer. Did I really believe what an evangelical preacher told me? She's got pity in her voice.

Well, that does it for me. If I hated him for what he did to Finn's ma, now I've got big fucking rocks in my head for Pastor Malachi Dove. By the time we go back to the Psychogenic Healing Ministries prayer meeting I want to do one thing: kill him.

This time we're in Santa Fe. The stage looks the same. Asuncion's in an embroidered baptism shift, and when she spots me in the queue again — almost shaking, I'm so fucking pissed off — she takes my hand and leads me back through the crowd. 'Where are we going?' I can see the exit door approaching. 'What's happening?'

She doesn't answer. She just leads me, with this totally surreal calm, through the back door of the chapel and left through a door into the toilet block.

'Move your bowels, please,' she goes, pointing to one of the toilets.

'What?'

'Move your bowels to complete the treatment.'