Living In Sin
         a short story by Ian R MacLeod

         I can still remember the last burning.
         I was ten or maybe less. Too young to understand, but I knew it was
         something special. The priests chanting and the crowds pushing to see
the
         man bound to the stake above the heaped pallets, old carpets and
         paraffin-soaked newspapers. Everyone straining to catch some kind of
         understanding from his face, wondering how it must feel. And then the
         procession of torches up from the back of the tennis courts where the
park
         keeper had his hut. The special darkness of the smoke lifting above the
         congregation and the hamburger stalls and the football pitches and the
         lines of coaches parked behind the houses. Everyone trying hard to stay
         quiet and listen for the screams that never came. My mother snatched my
         hand in the press of bodies, whispered that to God the smoke was like
         incense, he breathed it as the purest air. Took all that was bad into
his
         great holy lungs and turned it into good. Pity the poor sinner, but
pity
         more us poor mortals who must remain in the shame of our knowledge.
         I've been living in sin with Annie these past twenty years. We're
almost
         respectable. She's a non-destructive tester at Matsi Plastics on the
         industrial estate and I started work there in sales, trying to get
         shopkeepers to stock the cheap icons we produce. Then I decided that
shift
         supervisors had it easier, wandering around the shopfloor, telling
people
       what to do. The follies of youth. But that was how I met Annie,
watching
       her between the vats and hydraulics with her white overalls stained
yellow
       from the processes they use, then catching glimpses of her calves as we
       all knelt for blessing in the works chapel on the "A" lunch shift. Her
       hair was mostly red then, strands of it falling down from under her
       protective plastic cap in a way that seemed pretty to me. I was
separated
       from my wife and living alone, in my late twenties and already drinking
       too much and putting on weight, losing my hair. My early marriage had
       failed even before it began, and Annie's story wasn't much different.
We
       started flirting, dating, going out for drinks. We fell in love.
       Of course, we both knew that there was no chance of the Church granting
       annulments to the marriages that tied us, or blessing our union. But
there
       was never any direct discrimination against us. We rented our two
bedroom
       terraced house across the road from the church of Saint Anthony's
almost
       as easily as anyone else might have done. The neighbours were friendly
       enough, sympathetic even. They nodded to us each morning as we all
trooped
       yawning in our slippers to church for Matins. They let me borrow tools
       every winter when our pipes burst and chatted over the hedge in spring.
In
       the early days, Annie's hands often used to bleed from stigmata after
we
       had made love. But that diminished, in honesty probably as our own
passion
       lessened. Still, even after May was born, our chimney was licked by
       lightning every time there was a storm.
       Annie having May changed a lot of things. Kneeling at the pews of Saint
       Anthony's at Evensong whilst she was pregnant, we had prayed
frantically
       that our baby would be ordinary. But still we were as surprised as
anyone
       when our prayers were answered. Who had ever heard of God blessing
       adulterers with an undeformed child?
       The people at work began to share our table and play dominoes at
lunchtime
       in the canteen, to kneel close to us along the lines of stacking
plastic
       chairs in the works chapel. Mrs Hewison next door in our terrace even
       knitted May a matinee suit from pink and lime green acrylic she'd had
left
       over from a cardigan. Once people saw May in her pram and realised that
       she wasn't obviously damaged or deformed, I think they all expected the
       kid to be special, to start reciting the scriptures around the side of
her
       dummy or piss holy water like the ones you read about in the papers.
But
       it seemed that God had answered our prayers. He had given us
fornicators
       an ordinary child. An ordinary life. He had reached down from the
heavens
       and touched our brows with the sweat of ordinariness.
       The days at Matsi Plastics dragged by. The years happened quickly. They
       flew, and all Annie and I could do was watch. And draw slowly apart. We
       loved May, but that became a thin thread as she grew older and went out
       with her friends and we began to share the house together alone with
our
       age and our disappointments, the unbroken weight of our adulterous sin.
       Maybe if we could have got married, if the stigmata and the lightning
       hadn't returned every now and then to remind us. Maybe this, maybe
that.
       Sitting with the TV on and the evening paper spread on my lap, ashamed
of
       the loose and heavy flesh it covered with Annie slouched half asleep
       across the room and hating her for the silence and the ways she had let
go
       of herself and the loose grey hair that fell from her bun, I could see
the
       spire of Saint Anthony's through the little bay window, crooked and
       beckoning like a finger. And I could hear a young girl's laughter down
the
       street that was breathless and could have been May. Then some kid too
       young for any sense gunning a motorcycle. Where in name of Lord Jesus
did
       May go these evenings? Only the week before I'd walked into the
bathroom
       and found her standing there dripping and without a towel, looking like
       Aphrodite. I thought of the lads that sometimes came to the door
nowadays,
       rawfaced with knuckled hands I couldn't bear to watch yet couldn't look
       away as they moved them restlessly. Said fine Sir if May's not in I'll
       just call tomorrow God willing. All those polite words to make me think
       they were good lads when I could see their hands and I know what lads
were
         like Oh yes.
         I tried to close my mind and watch the TV. The news was full of new
         miracles, the word of God spreading out from Europe and America, across
         the whole world. The sunset full of angels and cherubim above Cairo,
the
         pillar of fire that had burned for three days and three nights in the
         Forbidden City. The newsreader was grinning. Oh, how foolish those
         foreigners must feel as they try to disguise their anguish and turn
their
         creaky foreign minds towards the Faith!
         I stood up and growled something about a walk, throwing the paper down
         deliberately loud and hard on my chair. Annie's eyes didn't flicker.
They
         were closed, showing just thin glitter of white like a dog's when it's
         sleeping. I pulled on my old anorak and took the cigarettes that Annie
         wouldn't let me smoke at home from the pocket of my office jacket. I
         slammed the front door and it bounced back the way it always did. I
pushed
         it gently shut.
         Out in the street, the air was tainted with the scent of factories,
smoke
         of chimneys, faded aftermath of the evening's cooking and dog turds
placed
         along the pavement like pieces from some new board game. A ripe smell,
the
         feeling warm and close, intimate as your underclothes. The gunning
         motorcycle and the breathlessly laughing older kids had gone. Just a
few
      young ones who should by rights have been in bed were rattling
skateboards
      on a makeshift ramp between the cars, shouting fuck this and screw that
      and then crossing themselves just in case and glancing back over their
      shoulders at the spire of Saint Anthony's souring crookedly beyond the
      rusted railings.
      The church rose over tombstones and trees. Blackened stone that was old
      enough to have been here when there was nothing but sweet green haze as
      far as the horizon, in days of saint and knight and dragon. The story
was
      that the spire had been straight until Gideon Kenna -- who was Lord of
the
      Manor when there was still a Manor to be Lord of -- took to the pulpit
at
      Matins one bright Christmastime and blasphemed. Said there was no God.
      Well, I mean. The church spire twisted at that very moment as a sign
for
      all to see and has stayed twisted ever since.
      But things were more easy going now. There hadn't been a burning since
      that one in my youth. People used to take a stricter view. They
believed
      that only flames could purify a soul so tormented as to reject God. And
      the pendulum was swinging back that way. Articles in the tabloids.
Sermons
      from the priests. Prophets shouting in their rags about the decadence
of
      our ways. These things come and go as God wishes, soft or strict, the
      other cheek or the plagues of Egypt, and if it sometimes seems that He
      changes his mind, then we must remember that His ways are to us as our
own
      ways are to an ant. Terrible. Inexplicable. Undeniable.
      I lit a cigarette and let the smoke lie on my tongue to take away the
      taste of the evening. Past the newsagents and then down the alleyway
      around the back of the houses, the pages of an old girlie mag were
      crumpled and splayed beside a bike-rutted puddle. Something the kids
had
      got hold of, someone's daughter spread out there on the page, fading in
      the rain and the sun.
      Why does He allow us to sin in these ways? I can still remember the
      terrors of my own youth, those sweet floods of sweat and pleasure
followed
      nights of sleepless agony when my eyes literally wouldn't close. But
his
      punishments are never quite strong enough. They join at the edges of
our
      lusts and fears until sometimes, poor sinners that we all undoubtedly
are,
      the pleasure and the pain becomes indistinguishable.
      But May was out in the town. Out almost every evening, pecking at her
      dinner, her eyes deep and absorbed, glancing up occasionally with an
odd
      kind of certainty that was enough to make you shiver, hair looking like
it
      needed a wash even when she'd just done it. Oh yes she was up to
      something. School didn't seem to count, her bedroom was a tip and she
went
      out straight after dinner and Evensong saying she she'd done her
homework
      in break and Really Daddy everything is absolutely alright honestly.
It's
      a free country isn't it. Surely Daddy you don't mind. With that smile
that
      would melt butter and her eyes glinting as though the whole world was
some
      secret that we shared. Just you and I Daddy. And I couldn't help
thinking
      of her standing there in the bathroom and the wet sheen on her skin,
that
      sweet kid. And that we were blessed and she'd never complained about
being
      let's face it a bastard. And I had to look away and pretend that
      everything was fine, fine.
      Maybe it's easier for girls. God gives them the blood of Eve but he
      doesn't burden them with the lusts of the male. Mary smiles down from
      every church when all a man can look up to is Christ in his last hot
agony
      on the cross. I tossed my cigarette into a tangle of garbage bursting
from
      a binbag behind the garages and crossed the allotments. No sign of the
      kids. Just a dog barking at its own echo off the backs of the houses,
      onion seed heads waving gently in no breeze at all.
      Just where did May get to these evenings? Yes I can remember what it
was
      like, this thing of being young, the rooftops shining with possibility
      under a rosy sky. First flavour of beer, cigarettes, press of a tongue
and
      bland bacony taste of another's saliva. All part of growing up, growing
      old and the things you did yourself and still you think no way will a
kid
      of mine no way never. But God smiles on the hot follies of youth. He
gave
      even me a Sign when I was, oh, no more than fourteen. A toy Madonna
like
       the stuff we still make at Matsi Plastics that I kept on top of my
       wardrobe with the dustballs and a model airship I'd never got around to
       finishing had spread her tiny hands and glowed like starlight. She had
       smiled down at me, whispering words of sympathy and meaning that I
       couldn't quite catch. God had given me a sign. Then he looked away.
       Through a gate beyond the allotments and down to the High Street, a kid
       leaning on the bonnet of someone else's car caught me staring and gave
me
       the finger. Another had spots and his arm up tight close to the breasts
of
       a simpering girl who could have been May but thank God wasn't.
Everything
       seemed to be quiet; the lights on at backs of the shops only made the
       grainy evening more empty. I turned down the footpath beyond the
library
       and the public toilets into the municipal park, expecting the air to be
       sweeter and darker and greener. But instead there were crowds.
       Kids and older people too, sitting on the grass, laughing, murmuring,
       pointing up towards the low hill that the Council had landscaped years
ago
       for the kiddies playground. What remained of the sun was streaming
across
       the playing fields through distant chimneys and skeletal goalposts. No
       trick of the light that it should fall on May like the blind eye of a
       searchlight as she balanced miraculously atop the highest bar of the
       largest climbing frame her skin, her open duffel coat, the white of her
       blouse, her very eyes all shades of gold. May talking, her voice
       everywhere and close to your ears as summer flies. Words of God,
       intricately speared on shafts of music and sunset.
       May. Our kid. The baby we prayed at Saint Anthony's beneath that
crooked
       spire Please let it be fine and ordinary. And here I was where I could
see
       for myself and laugh at my fears that my daughter was a slut. No slut
no.
       She was in the park, drawing the crowds and talking Sweet Holy Jesus
like
       a prophet. And the people were murmuring and smiling and raising their
       hands as a flock of starlings streamed over the swings and the slides
and
       the bowling green to roost and the darkness rose up from the soft damp
       grass and swallowed their grins and their eyes and May was in light
alone.

       I broke away from the crowd and the golden buzzing in my ears, running
       like I hadn't run in too many years, slamming my knee like a fool
straight
       into a park bench, limping the rest of the way back to the High Street.
       And into the nearest pub. Lucky I had enough money to get decently
drunk.
       There was a fat bald guy beside me and another fat bald guy across the
bar
       in the mirror. After a few beers I started talking to them both. About
how
       we'd prayed for May but we should have known and it's never the things
you
       worry about with kids that actually happen.
       Waddyouknow, my daughter's a prophet. You've seen them, my Friend,
looking
         crazed and thin, the hot light flooding out of their eyes. None of them
         last long, pouring that much power into one soul is like lighting a
candle
         with a blowtorch, putting rocket fuel into a moped. It burns them up.
They
         shrivel down to the eyes and teeth and cheekbones. They go mad. Then
they
         die and the angels weep and the clouds churn thunder and the stars fall
         from the heavens like dazzling snow. There was a prophet laid out in
our
       church for years when I was a kid, the bony body incorruptible and
reeking
       of violets until someone found the courage to give the thing a decent
       burial. It wasn't natural, it wasn't human. Who needs to go on about
the
       existence of God when the evidence is all around? I suppose it draws
the
       crowds for a while, gives them something to watch. But then so does a
       football match. And so does a burning.
       I gave a belch. The fat bald guy in the mirror belched back at me.
       Finished my drink and started another, thinking of Gideon Kenna late
Lord
       of this Manor when there was still a Manor to be Lord of. At least he
took
       a risk, said something less than obvious from the pulpit at Saint
       Anthony's on that dim and distant Christmas. Maybe it was just too much
of
       ye mulled wine or the kids had been playing up and ungrateful about
their
       presents the way kids always are. But it was bold, you know, he took a
       stand, right?
       The fat guy on the right of me was talking at cross purposes but he
nodded
       anyway. The whole bar was now doused in a golden haze not unlike the
one
       that had illuminated May in the park but a whole lot more comfortable.
       People were getting sentimental and singing the old hymns the way you
do
       after you've had a few. The way you do, at least, when your daughter's
not
       a prophet. But we all have our troubles. Friend on the right was
telling
       me that his wife had had would you believe it nine kids. They'd tried
       praying and fasting and contraceptives and everything but nothing
worked,
       the things just kept on coming. I mean, you love them all when they
come,
       but sweet Jesus why so many? Why? I slapped him on the back and struck
out
       into the night.
       Immediately I was outside, the anger that I'd been trying to swallow
with
       the beer rose up. A prophet. This was my daughter. May. A prophet.
       Balancing on the climbing frame like a bird. Burning with light.
Couldn't
       she have a life like anyone else? Maybe even take a few of those
girlish
       risks that worried me as long as it was nothing too stupid and I didn't
       get to know. Then get married and stay married and have not too many
kids.
         Go on holiday and walk the seafront and eat candyfloss and throw bread
to
         the gulls. I looked up at the stars the way you sometimes do when you
pray
         even though God is everywhere. Please understand, I said to Him, I'd
marry
         Annie if I could. Even looking the way she does now. You've got it
wrong
         if you think you're punishing us with May and if you're blessing us
please
         don't. You have to tell God these things sometimes, even though of
course
         he already knows.
         But tonight the stars weren't listening. They were dancing. Not the way
         the stars always do when you're drunk, but wheeling, spinning, swirling
         like the lights of a fairground. One or two other people hurrying home
         glanced up as well. I saw them shake their heads and cross themselves
or
         just pretend it was nothing. There were celebrations in the heavens
         tonight. My daughter was a prophet. Hallelujah! She would spread the
word
         of God.
         The sky had settled down by the time I got back outside our house,
         sticking to the main roads and avoiding the alleys just in case I got
         mugged by some poor sinner still searching for the Way. A few people
back
         from the pub or who had slept in front of the TV for too long were
         scurrying through the gates of Saint Anthony's, up the graveyard path
to
         catch the last of evening Vigil and prayers. Automatically, I started
         across the road myself, then paused and stepped back to the pavement. I
         really had nothing left to say to God that evening that could safely be
         said in my own mind, let alone in church, and filled with this much beer
I
         was concerned that my stomach might betray myself. You risked being
         accused of trafficking with the devil if you simply sneezed during
         services. I didn't like to think what would happen if you threw up over
         the pews. Staying away from church just this once seemed like the
lesser
         risk. Everyone misses occasionally: after all, we are only human.
         The lights were out at home. I made more noise than I intended getting
         into the hall. May's duffel coat wasn't back on the hanger. She was
still
         out, spreading the word. I yanked off my shoes and crept up the worn
stair
         carpet on fingers and toes, not that I cared about waking Annie, but it
         was a point of pride that she didn't hear me stumbling around drunk. I
         tiptoed along the landing and peered into May's empty room.
         Drifts of starlight through the window. Things I'd been too wrapped up
in
         myself to notice. White tears the Blutac had made on the wallpaper
where
      she had peeled down all her posters of ponies and pop stars. The big
      crucifix that I'd been given free as a faulty moulding from Matsi
Plastics
      years before that now hung above her bed. I wondered whether she'd
noticed
      that the nailed right hand had six fingers, or whether she thought it
was
      a Sign. And maybe it was. Nothing was certain now. Even the air had
lost
       the bedroom smells of slept-on sheets, spilled jars of cheap makeup,
       flesh, nylons drying on the radiator and the cigarettes May sometimes
used
       to smoke and thought we didn't realise. Instead, it was cold and sharp,
       like a church filled with flowers.
       My daughter. May. My Jesus Goddamn daughter. Annie grunted from our
       bedroom and turned over in her sleep. Somewhere, a car horn sounded.
Now
       that my eyes had adjusted, I saw that the crucifix was glowing dimly,
like
      a kiddies nightlight. Jesus turned his plastic head towards me and
smiled.

       I stumbled back down the stairs. Sitting in the kitchen darkness with
the
       cold Formica table pressing my elbows, my fingers kneading my eyes, my
       daughter's sweet face gazed up at me from the well of the past. May
amid
       the sparkle of the kiddies swimming pool. Then holding a cold flannel
to
      her forehead as she moaned and threw up next day, bilious from
swallowing
      too much chlorine. And skipping beside us that wonderful misty day
along
      the canal towpath. And May in church, praying with half a mind and half
an
      eye like any other kid. And how proud we'd felt, thinking how we had
been
      blessed with ordinariness even with all the sin in our lives. And May
      naked from the bath, the sweet pink womanly flesh that made you proud
and
      hurt and wondrous and ashamed.
      I turned the kitchen radio on. This late at night when most of the
      stations have gone off air you can hear the whisperings of souls. Those
      breathless lips, grey as moonlight. But even with the radio up high, I
      could only catch the odd word. Frost...candle...pain. The unforgiven
dead,
      streaming across the night sky, searching for an entrance to heaven.
Maybe
      Gideon Kenna was still up there too, tumbling over the sleeping
rooftops
      and Saint Anthony's twisted spire like a sycamore seed, flapping his
      clumsy medieval wings.
      The beer was starting to wear off. I was wound up so tight that I could
      feel the skin of my cheeks and forehead stretching like drying leather.
I
      wished there was some booze in the house. But I knew there wasn't.
Annie
      never got any when she went to the supermarket; said I'd only go and
drink
      it.
      Then I heard the front door. May's breathing as she took off her shoes,
      her duffel coat.
      "Why are you sitting in the dark?" she asked, standing in the kitchen
      doorway.
      "How did you know I was down here?"
      "Of course I knew."
      I cringed as she clicked on the light. She raked a chair across the
lino.
       Sat down opposite.
       "This is far too late," I said, forcing my eyes up to meet hers. "No
       father lets his girl stay out this late."
       "You know where I've been Daddy. I'll always be safe as long as God is
       with me."
       "Why didn't you tell us?"
       She smiled. Soft pink lips that made me think of the colour of her
nipples
       as she stepped out from the bath although the thought made me fill with
       shame. What sort of father was I? Jesus some sort of pervert. She
smiled
       again. She was gazing straight into me across the Formica through the
       yellow kitchen light like I was made of dirty glass. Seeing all the
things
       you would kill to hide.
       "You've been drinking Daddy. You shouldn't. It draws you away from
God."
       "Why you, May? You've got your whole..." My nose was suddenly starting
to
       run from the beginning of tears. I wiped it with the back of my hand.
Not
       caring I was a slob. "...whole life."
       "This...my whole life?" She looked around at the kitchen, half smiling,
       half in tears herself. "...this. We've got all eternity Daddy." I
realised
       suddenly that the radio was silent. Her presence must have frightened
away
       the ghosts.
       "God is waiting for us all," she said. "He cares, he even gives us
signs
       so that we can be certain. But still people have to be told." She
looked
       straight at me, her eyes wet and bright and hot. "Still people have to
be
       told."
       "So evenings you go down the park. That's the beginning." My voice
started
       to tremble. "The people point and gather round. That's the beginning.
You
       know what will happen don't you?"
       "One day God will break this vessel, just as he will break yours. Does
it
       really matter how or when?"
       I nodded and heard my neck creak and said nothing. But yes it did
matter.
       I was made from flesh and sin and folly and May was my daughter...my
       beautiful, beautiful daughter. I loved her because of these things, not
in
       spite of them. Even the foolish hurts and fears. The shameful things
that
       make us weak and make us strong. And now something had possessed her
that
       was power and knowledge beyond belief and all possible understanding.
It
       smiled at me like plastic Jesus and slithered wet ropes of steel behind
       her eyes.
       "Let's pray, Daddy," she said, taking my hands. Her cool fingers, sharp
       and dry. "We'll wait through the night. Go across to Saint Anthony's
       together for Matins when the dawn comes. Let's be the first there. I
love
     it when the light comes in on the darkness and the stained glass starts
to
      glow."
      And we waited. And the clock ticked in the lounge. And the house
creaked
      gently. And light at the window brightened. And the milk carts rattled
in
      the morning. And the kitchen was grease-stained walls, the faint smell
of
      gas that I could never trace, the Brown and Polson clock that never
told
      the time, scratches on the Formica table, everything that shrank into
      ordinariness when you looked at it like a punctured balloon.
      But May retained the power of the night.
      "Come on, Daddy," she said. "Let's go."
      "...your mother."
      "Let Mummy sleep. There's time for everything."
      We crossed the road. The air was fresh and clean now and the last of
the
      stars were fading. I was in slippers and neither of us had bothered to
      change or put on coats. Sour sweat wafted up from my crumpled collar,
but
      May's white blouse still glowed like something from a soap advert or a
      cheap religious painting. Her steps were light on the gravel path as we
      walked up through the graveyard. It was too early for shadows but I
felt
      the dark weight of Saint Anthony's leaning out of the rosy sky. The
spire
      seemed to tilt and sway.
      Under the Norman arch I looked back beyond the railings towards the
tight
      rows of houses. A few people were already starting to emerge, heading
this
      way down the street. More front doors opened as I watched. Dogs began
to
      bark, the sparrows began to chip, lights came on behind yellowed
curtains.
      It was hardly six. The streets were waking up too early; normally you
only
      got the crazies and the painfully devout in church for Matins at this
      time. But they were coming in a rambling stream through the swing gate,
      expressions of childish expectation on faces still stiff with sleep.
They
      knew that something was going to happen.
      The church door was open as always. Gleam of gold and jewels at the far
      altar: precious riches that no one would ever dare to steal. I felt my
way
      through the misty dimness, breathing the scent of hymn books and old
      stone, the faint acrid tang of violets.
      "You always sit at the back, Daddy," May said.
      "Not today." I shook my head.
      At the transept where the tall stained glass was beginning to weep
colour,
      the ancient pulpit was a castle of dark wood. I unhooked the rope that
      barred the steps and climbed the spiral.
      "...are you doing?" I heard May's stern voice behind me, but she didn't
      follow.
      Looking down at her from twice my height from the top of the pulpit, I
      felt a reckless sense of freedom.
      "You can't just..." She looked up at me with the slide of steel behind
her
        eyes. Her voice grew lower, deeper, half inside my head. Commanding.
"You
        cannot speak. Not here in My house."
        I forced myself to look into those eyes. I saw everything and nothing.
The
        open wound of eternity. "You gave me free will," I said. "To do what?"
        "To worship Me. To do My will." Her lips moved awkwardly, like a
        poorly-dubbed foreign film, but the sound was overpowering. The bones
in
        my skull rattled like loose floorboards.
        I swallowed once, then again. "And if I choose to exercise my own will.
        What will you do? Bring down the church, twist the spire like a kid in
a
        tantrum? Destroy me? Haven't you done that already, given me a life
where
      the days run and stick to one another like...like so much wet
newspaper.
      Just who do you think you are, you bastard!"
      May's face grew blank and almost ugly with puzzlement. The terrible
power
      faded from her eyes. She looked crumpled and dowdy, her blouse in need
of
      a change, her hair in need of a wash. Just a kid, just a kid.
      "May," I said, "I love you," knowing that He was still there, that He
      never went away, that He was still in me even as I defied Him. But
perhaps
      there was still enough of the real me there to fight it.
      "Look, Daddy," she raised her hands in a frustrated shrug. "Just what
do
      you think you're going to do? This is so..." she glanced around at the
      fat, drunken pillars, the creamy white of the marble monuments on the
      walls. "...so embarrassing."
      Embarrassing. Yes, that was good; embarrassing. An ordinary human
emotion.
      It was a victory. I smiled. Victory. I knew it couldn't last for long.
      "Sit down," I said, waving a hand, getting the feel of being up here in
      the pulpit. "I just have something to say."
      She was about to argue, but the door at the back of the church boomed
open
      and the people began to pour in. I saw Mrs Hewison from next door in
one
      of her horrid cardigans, faces from work. And Annie was there too,
      shuffling in baggy socks like the old lady she had nearly become. They
all
      looked up, but no one seemed that surprised to see me, the sinner, the
      adulterer, gazing down at them from the pulpit. The priest hurried in
from
      the chancery, half in and half out of his cassock. May saw him and ran
      over, whispered something to him. I never knew what it was, but it was
      enough. He sat down with all the others.
      The pews were full. May on the front row, looking up at me. I saw my
own
      face in hers, and Annie's when she was younger and her hair was pretty
and
      red. I saw joy and weakness, uncertainty and sin. The sun had risen now
      and light was pouring through the windows, gleaming on the balding
heads
      and the spiderwebs of grey hair, the innocent and wicked, the upturned
      faces. The air was filled with the human smell of them all, like the
taste
         of cigarettes and the night that was still in my mouth. I could hear
the
         whisper of their lungs, their hearts pulsing.
         Overhead, along the high roof, one of the wooden angels that buttressed
         the hammerbeams shivered its dusty wings uneasily, like a bird keeping
         balance on a dipping branch. The fluttering spread amongst the others,
a
         dry sound like paper twisting in a fire, like leaves blown across
         concrete. The congregation hardly bothered to look up, but to me it was
a
         Sign. I could almost feel the whole church tremble; the wood and the
         stones and the twisted dunce's cap of the steeple held together moment
to
         moment by force and unreason.
         I glanced down at the lectern in front of me. The pages of the Bible
were
         laid open and marked, ready for the first reading of the day. Exodus
3:14.
         The part where Moses asks God how to describe him to the Children of
         Israel. And God says, Tell them I AM THAT I AM.
         I closed the heavy pages. Dust drifted in the gathering sunlight. I
opened
      my mouth, then checked myself. Normally -- if there is a normally for a
      time such as this -- I would have been a stammering, shivering wreck by
      now. But although the whole world and the heavens were against me and
      already I could smell the paraffin and feel the first hot tickle of the
      flames, I was strong. I imagined the ghost of Gideon Kenna. A sad,
earnest
      face blotched with the sufferings of years, pushed one step too far
along
      a road he didn't want to follow. His arms were supporting me, his
fingers
      pushing me on. Age to age. One man to another with nothing but time and
      air between us. Wanting only to live in peace, to die and know the
      certainty of darkness. And I felt a hot surge in my blood. I felt my
      strength and knew that it was anger. Simple. Hot. Righteous. Anger.
      I balled my fist and shook it at the roof and the at sky, at the
      trembling, fluttering angels. My voice echoed through the silence in a
      great and gathering howl. I wiped the spit from my lips with the back
of
      my hand. Slob that I am.
      I leaned forward over the lectern. I began to speak.

         Afterword
         'Living In Sin' was published in Amazing Stories in January 1991.
         I've always had a bit of a love-hate relationship with religion, which
has
         probably reached its culmination in my first novel, The Great Wheel,
which
         is due out from Harcourt Brace in the USA this summer, where I ended up
         managing what I'd like to think is a reasonably sympathetic portrait of
a
         Roman Catholic priest. Religious convictions, of course, are basically
         illogical; they are wild leaps in the direction of aspirations and
ideas
         that have little if anything to do with the practicalities of everyday
         life. Religion makes promises of serenity and fulfilment that it never
         keeps. Religion leads people towards self-centred certainty, bigotry
and
        violence. But it also encourages quite staggering feats of altruism.
        Religion is, in fact, a little like that other great human mystery -
        sexual love. It often makes people look ridiculous, but it can also
        transcend every other aspect of life. In the future, no matter how it
        happens and we writers choose to envisage it, I don't think either love
or
        religion will ever go away; or not, at least, until humans are got rid
of
        altogether. God, on the other hand - the kind of God that most of us
were
        brought up to believe in the world's main monotheistic religions - has
in
        my view much less to recommend Him. He's the anti-hero of 'Living In
Sin',
        meddling in a world that would get on better without Him. If nothing
else,
        the story is an argument against all those people who say that, if God
        exits, he she or it would surely reveal his, her or itself to us. Do we
        really want to know? Where the Hell (and I choose the world advisedly)
        would such knowledge get us?

        © Ian R MacLeod 1991, 1997