Dan Carver - Ruin Nation

Getting haemorrhoids on that hard floor – God forbid they sit on the Holy Virgin’s face – sit two more creatures, imploring the gigantic Jesus above the mantelpiece for assumption. They’re small, spindly and I could probably snap them with one hand. But they’re still truly terrifying.

They say God heals the sick. He also recruits them. Four more creatures sit in four wheelchairs, systematically gouging themselves with kitchen equipment. The most senior of these figures looks up from the steak knife embedded between the radius and ulna of his left arm and saws – in, out, in, out – to the sickening sound of tearing sinew.

“Good morning,” he purrs. “You’ll forgive us for not greeting you… en masse, but we find the stairs so much trouble, these days. Our piety has left us somewhat debilitated. But I trust Novice Peter has been taking care of you?”

“Yes, Elder Adam,” Novice Peter replies, tugging the forelock of his appalling haircut. “But soon I hope to be a cripple, too, Lord willing.”

It’s not a recognisable word that comes out of my mouth.

Elder Adam wheels forward, leaving burgundy daubs on his tyres. He’s so close I can feel the heat from his decomposing mouth. “Well then,” and he reaches into his cardigan to produce my papers. “Well then, young Hugo…” and he taps my photograph with the talon that sprouts from his bandaged mitt, “welcome home, brother.”

“I…” I start, but the words stick in my dry throat.

Elder Adam smiles wide and warm. “You have questions. It’s only natural.”

“How did I get here?” is my eventual croak.

“Ah! You’ve found your tongue, child. Well, the good Lord put you on this Earth to glorify him.”

I nod furiously. I figure it’s best to agree. I’ve heard of religious extremists scoring the soles of a captured nonbeliever’s feet before. Then they can preach all day and he can’t run away. That’s God’s love for you.

“Er, yes. I… I understand that,” I say. “What I meant is… how did I get here… in this place, with… with you?”

“You cried for help and we answered. You went to the bridge,” answers the female Elder Paul. “That was your cry!”

It seems they’ve got me figured for a suicide attempt.

“You went to the bridge,” Elder Paul trills in her soprano voice, “and you jumped. But we caught you. And we know what you did was a sin, but the Lord forgives those who repent.”

Obviously ‘caught’ me metaphorically, I reason, or I wouldn’t feel like I’d been hit by a truck.

“Many of our brethren come from the bridge,” Intermediate Solomon explains excitedly. “It is the duty of those still afflicted with the curse of walking to find souls to save. And what a soul you are! You already wear the wounds of the stigmata! How pious you must have been before your deviation from Jesus!”

Suddenly, everyone’s studying me. And so I check out my reflection in the polished wooden floor – all wrapped in white linen, with my injured head and hands, and the great gash in my side. I look like I’ve been crucified by work-experience centurions.

“Yes, it is an auspicious occasion,” confirms the very-pregnant Under Elder Eve who’s clearly been under Elder Adam.

“God must truly be thanked for bringing you home to us!” says Novice Luke. “You are a sign, my prodigal one, a sign that even the most devout, even those that bear the true, God-gifted wounds of the stigmata, may fall from grace. You are a reminder that we must not backslide. We must slash our devotion into ourselves, lest we forget!” And he takes up some bladed implement.

“Please!” I say, attempting a calm voice and failing miserably. “Please! Don’t slash anything! Look: I don’t have the stigmata. I’ve never had the stigmata!”

“It’s useless to deny,” says Novice Peter.

“You can’t deny it,” says Elder Adam, “the evidence is clear to see, as plain as day; the wound of the crown of thorns etched into your forehead!”

“It’s acne and a head injury!” I bawl.

“No!” cries our maniacal collective simultaneously. “It is the wounds of Christ!”

“As is this!” Elder Adam whispers, unwrapping the swathes of dirty bandage around his hand and letting the loops fall silently to the floor. He takes a pen and jams it through the rot-edged sphincter in his palm, pushing a plug of congealed matter out onto the rug. His expression remains beatific throughout, suggesting that, not only is this perfectly normal behaviour, but a noble pursuit children should be encouraged to emulate.

“Disinfectant,” I creak, backing as far as the walls will allow.

“No disinfectant,” says Novice Peter, “because we are pure both in faith and physiology. There was no disinfectant for Jesus, after all. And what right do we have to something denied to Jesus? No, there will be no disinfectant for any of us, including you. For what is rot, anyway, but the slow return of our bodies to the Lord, bit by bit.”

I don’t like the sound of ‘including you’. Something about it sets me climbing the walls, searching behind the hangings for some kind of window to jump out of.

“Yes, we are pure,” says Elder Paul in her increasingly high-pitched voice. “As were you – to bear the mark of the crown of thorns. But do not fear. You can be again.”

“I’ve never been pure!” I scream. “This isn’t stigmata. It’s a great, big spot brought on by drug use and adrenal stress!”

“Let he who is without sin,” answers Novice Peter with his truly horrible grin. “The straight and narrow path may prove difficult to see at first, but turn it to the side and you will find it to be the broad, shining blade of the Stanley knife.”

“But I’m really bad! I’m pure hate!”

“Then it’s a good job we found you.”

I tear at the Jesi (is that the plural?), ripping down the images, searching desperately for the deity that disguises the door.

“Ah! The Devil is once more within him,” observes Elder Adam. “See! See how he desecrates our home; our faith! Seize him gently, brethren, and scourge him til he sees the Bright and Shining Light.”

Now call me old-fashioned, but I don’t fancy being scourged. Fair play, it was nice of them to lend me the Jesus y-fronts, but I don’t intend being razored to within an inch of my life for the privilege. It’s just not cricket, kids.

What are my options? Well, I don’t stop to consider them. I see Elder Adam’s huge, serrated knife waving about and I decide I’m taking it off him and sticking it into the first freak who comes near me. It doesn’t matter that it’s still imbedded in his forearm.

So I dive forward and the next moment’s like something out of The Sword in the Stone, only with an old man replacing the chunk of rock. And I’ve got my foot on his shoulder. And I’m yanking the knife handle, and he’s screaming at me. And there’s this almighty ripping sound, a fountain of arterial spray and…

Well, Elder Adam may love God, but I doubt the Good Lord returns the sentiment with the same degree of intensity. Because I extract the knife, but not without removing one of his ears in the process. I slip and slice the thing clean off. It arcs through the air and lands in Novice Peter’s lap with a big, wet plop.

“My God!” Peter cries.

“Sweet Jesus!” croaks Elder Adam, spewing blood like a fire hydrant. “His knife work is outstanding! Though the Devil may be upon him, it is clear he was sent here to set us on the Lord’s path! Mutilate us, brother Hugo! Maim us for Jesus! Kill us, good Christian and send us back to our God! Truly(!) we’re all going home in an ambulance tonight!”

My stomach gives out. Everywhere.