The raptures, p.1
The Raptures, page 1
Jan Carson
* * *
THE RAPTURES
Contents
25 June – Hannah
The Summer Begins
The First
The Living Spit
Prayer and Fasting
A Run in the Car
Names
After the Funeral
The Meeting
The Debrief
Bearing Witness
Tests
Intercession
The Leaving Ceremony
No Good News
The Raggedy Tree
Millar’s Gap
The Glorious Twelfth
A Bit of a Scene
The End of All Time
The Bad Books
Last Orders
The Fathers
The Bones of It
Convictions
The Search
All Is Lost
Confession
Running Fast
Sickening
The End Times
The Laying-on of Hands
A Kind of Miracle
The Remnant
After the Rapture
14 September – Hannah
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Photo © Jonathan Ryder
JAN CARSON is a writer and community arts facilitator based in Belfast. Her first novel, Malcolm Orange Disappears, was published in 2014 to critical acclaim, followed by a short-story collection, Children’s Children (2016), and two flash fiction anthologies, Postcard Stories (2017) and Postcard Stories 2 (2020). Her second novel, The Fire Starters (2019), won the EU Prize for Literature and was shortlisted for the Dalkey Novel of the Year Award. Her second short-story collection, The Last Resort, was published in 2021 and read on BBC Radio 4. She specializes in running arts projects and events with older people, especially those living with dementia. The Raptures is her third novel.
Praise for The Fire Starters
‘One of the most exciting and original Northern Irish writers of her generation.’
SUNDAY TIMES
‘Blew me away with its power, anger and wit.’
JOSEPH O’CONNOR
‘Jan Carson seems to have invented a new Belfast in this gripping, surprising, exhilarating novel.’
RODDY DOYLE
‘Captivating, intelligent and courageous.’
IRISH TIMES
‘Gripping, affecting, surprising. I inhaled it.’
LISA MCINERNEY
‘Spectacular. At once grittily real, wildly magical and insanely alluring.’
DONAL RYAN
‘Shimmering with wit, simmering with an incandescent rage, shot through with a seam of wild magic … Jan Carson is on fire.’
LUCY CALDWELL
‘Carson’s playfulness delights again and again, even as she explores her city’s darkest corners. Sound the siren: this novel truly burns bright.’
IRISH INDEPENDENT
Also by Jan Carson
Malcolm Orange Disappears
The Fire Starters
STORIES
Children’s Children
Postcard Stories
Postcard Stories 2
The Last Resort
For Alan. Proud to be your sister. Grateful to be your friend.
‘This is a study of the people I uneasily call my own.’
Susan McKay, Northern Protestants: An Unsettled People
‘So high you can’t get over it,
So low you can’t get under it,
So wide you can’t get ’round it,
Oh, wonderful love!’
Traditional, ‘Jesus’ Love Is Very Wonderful’
25 June – Hannah
MISS MCKEOWN SAID it wasn’t always going to be like this. Eventually, it would get better here. Matty raised his hand and asked if eventually was going to last much longer. Miss gave him one of her looks and never bothered answering. She probably thought he was being sarcastic.
Matty was only asking because he wanted to know. He’s not smart enough to be sarcastic. Matty’s still reading baby books though today’s our last day of P7. It’s not his fault. He’s got no dad and his mum’s rubbish. She never goes over his homework or checks his reading. Granny says Matty’s been dragged up. Mum says it’s not nice to talk like that. I’m to be kind like Jesus and share my crisps with him at break time; first pick of the bag, before I get down to the wee broken bits. Everybody else’s mum must’ve said the same thing because we’re all nice to Matty. We pretend not to notice the way he smells or the worn bits in his trousers. When we line up to pay for school dinner tickets, we let him go last, so he doesn’t have to see us seeing him get his for free.
I’m not poor like Matty. I’m not stupid either. I’m the second smartest in our class. Only William’s sharper than me. That’s probably because he’s a boy. God made girls from boys’ leftover bits. It says so in the Bible: Genesis chapter 2. Last year, in Sunday school, I got a gift token for the Faith Mission bookshop because I could recite the first three chapters of Genesis off by heart. Word perfect. No hesitation. I didn’t need to check the Bible once.
I’m pretty clever for a girl. Obviously, I’d never say this out loud. It’d sound like I was being prideful. Pride’s one of the worst sins you can do. Only murder and adultery are worse. I’m not exactly sure what adultery is. I think it’s when you act more grown-up than you actually are: drinking wine and playing cards or maybe giving your parents lip.
I should’ve looked it up in the dictionary when we were learning vocabulary. I probably won’t get the chance now. I don’t think you do vocabulary in big school. It’s a pity. I really like words. There’s a space at the back of my jotter for writing new ones next to their meanings. I’ve learnt so many, I’m almost out of room. Sarcastic. Fantastic. Evangelical, which is what we are, in my family. Encyclopaedia. Environmental. Rhododendron. Rhododendron’s the hardest word in the spelling book.
I don’t need to ask Miss McKeown for a definition. I know that eventually means a really long time. Just saying it makes me tired. It’s a word that feels like a waiting room. We’ve had the Troubles here for a really long time. I asked Granda Pete how long they’ve gone on for. ‘How long’s a piece of string?’ he said. This is a thing adults say when they don’t know the answer but still want to sound smart. I asked my dad the same question. He said it wasn’t the sort of thing wee girls should be thinking about. According to Dad there’s lots of things wee girls shouldn’t think about. We don’t talk about the Troubles in our house. The Bible says you shouldn’t have anything to do with the World. Worldly things are politics, gambling and the pictures. I’m not that bothered about politics or gambling. I just wish we weren’t against the cinema.
Last summer Caroline’s birthday was in the big cinema over in town. She invited me. That was nice of her. Most of the ones in my class don’t bother asking if I can go to their parties or come round to play. They know my parents won’t allow me. Outside of school, we don’t do anything that isn’t church. I still asked Dad about going to Caroline’s birthday. I told him the film was only a PG. ‘It’s about a big dog that’s always knocking stuff over,’ I said. ‘There’s no swearing in it or anything.’ He said no. I knew he would. Every time I ask about the pictures, Dad says, ‘Cinema starts with sin, you know.’ I don’t know what he’s talking about. We drive past the State on the way to church and the sign’s definitely spelt with a C.
I’ve never been to the pictures but we do have a television in our house. Cinema’s pretty much the same as telly. It’s just on a bigger screen. Every night, after dinner, Dad watches the news. I’d rather watch EastEnders like everybody else, but it’s banned in our house because the people in it are always swearing and getting divorced. The news is better than nothing and, while Mum’s redding up the dishes, I get Dad and Hannah time. When there’s bad stuff reported – and there’s never a night when nobody dies – Dad makes a clickety noise with his tongue. He shakes his head. ‘Dear, dear,’ he mutters and writes the details down in his notebook. Car accident. Aughnacloy. 2 killed. Pipe bomb, Crossmaglen. 4 army injured. Incendiary device in C&As. I never say anything. I click my tongue and make the same sad noise as Dad. News isn’t for discussing. It’s for praying about later on.
I can tell from watching the news that most folk are fed up with the Troubles. The people who get interviewed are always crying. Or looking angry. Or looking angry and also crying because more people have got themselves killed. People have had enough of it. No more bombs, they say. No more shootings. No more army boys on the streets. We want something better for our weans. Them lot need to wise up and start talking to each other. I’m not sure who’s stopped talking to who. Ian Paisley’s never done talking and Gerry Adams talked so much they’ve got somebody else in to do his voice. I suspect it’s the ones in the balaclavas who need to talk. Maybe to each other. Or to the police.
I don’t know why we have the Troubles here but I know it’s us children who deserve something better. We’re the future of Northern Ireland. We had a special assembly about it last month. A woman came down from Londonderry. Principal Taylor arranged for her to speak to the older ones. There’d have been no point in her talking to the juniors about serious stuff like the Troubles and peace. Until P4 you only do playing and colouring-in. The woman arrived in the afternoon. This meant we got out of maths, so everybody was in great form. The lady had a fella with her from the paper. He made us line up in the playground for a photo. Boys at the back. Girls at the front. Lief with the girls because he’s wild tiny for a boy. We held a big banner in front of our legs so you could only see us from the middle up. It was yellow, with the words the future of Northern Ireland written on the front in shiny, black letters. Just before he clicked the camera the man made a face and stuck his tongue out. We’re all cracking up in the photograph. Principal Taylor pinned it up on the noticeboard.
We don’t usually have women taking assembly. It’s nearly always ministers. Ministers are always men. They come in to do a wee Bible lesson and say a prayer. The best ones bring puppets or Flannelgraph. Sometimes we sing a couple of choruses; only if it’s one of Mrs Getty’s days with P5. She’s the only teacher who knows how to play the piano and the singing sounds woeful without it. Like cats in a tumble drier, Kathleen says. The ministers are never from our church because our church isn’t in Ballylack. It’s in the town, five miles away. Pastor Bill wouldn’t mind driving out. It’s just that there’s half a dozen other churches in the village and they get first dibs on visiting our school. Dad says it’s OK to listen to other ministers. They’re Protestants like us; just a different kind.
We’re the evangelical charismatic sort which means we believe in getting saved and going to Hell, Jesus and also the Holy Spirit. In our church the women wear hats. We use the Bible with the old-fashioned words but sing modern choruses off the overhead projector. We speak in tongues and do special praying with hands on. We don’t believe in the cinema or chewing gum. (The chewing-gum thing might just be my parents because I’ve seen ones from the Youth Fellowship blowing bubble-gum bubbles round the back of the Minor Hall.) We’re not the popular kind of Protestant. There aren’t that many of us. In Ballylack there’s only us and Granny and Mrs Nugent. In the town it’s a bit better. There’s enough to fill a medium-sized church. At Christmas and Easter it’s pretty bunged. Granda Pete’s not our sort of Protestant. I’m not sure what kind he actually is. Granda says Prods are like potatoes. There’s five dozen different varieties. They’re all much of a muchness when you peel them back.
The woman who came to our school was called Sinéad, which means she was probably a Roman Catholic. You can tell from their names and how they keep their gardens. Catholics are more through-other than us. After the assembly I heard her talking to Miss McKeown. ‘Jesus,’ she said, ‘I could murder a coffee.’ I knew she definitely wasn’t a Protestant then. Protestants don’t take the Lord’s name in vain. Sinéad had come to tell us we were the future of Northern Ireland. We needed to work together for peace. I already knew a bit about this.
Every year our school goes on a trip with the ones from Tullybarret Primary. Last year we all went to Belview Zoo. It was class. I liked the sea lions best. The year before we went to Tardree Forest. It’s only two miles down the road. I didn’t think this counted as a proper trip. The teachers made us walk round with the Catholics. We were meant to be on a scavenger hunt and also making friends with each other so the Troubles would end and we could get peace. We didn’t know what to talk about. We couldn’t pronounce their funny names. And Kathleen said their daddies were all in the IRA (they were the ones who blew up her mum). I still wanted to be nice to the Catholics. Jesus was nice to everyone. Even lepers, and if you had leprosy in them days it was really contagious. Bits of your face went black, then fell off. I wanted to be nice like Jesus was, but I didn’t trust Catholics. They were different from us in lots of ways. When it was their turn to bring the packed lunch, their sandwiches were made with fake ham. The minging kind you get in a tin.
Once everybody was in for the special assembly and we were sitting criss cross apple sauce on the wooden floor, Sinéad told us she’d come to tell us about a writing competition. It would be running in every single primary school in Northern Ireland. ‘Both Protestant and Catholic,’ she said, as if we didn’t know what every single primary school meant. Sinéad wanted us to imagine what our country would be like in the future, when we were adults in charge of everything. ‘Imagine,’ she said, ‘what Ballylack will be like in twenty years’ time, or ten years’ time, or even five. You’ll all be sixteen then; almost grown up. What do you think will be different? How are you going to shape the future? Boys and girls, I don’t mind telling you, I’m extremely hopeful about the years ahead. Your generation’s going to change things. The future’s your responsibility. By the time you’re up and leaving school, we could have peace in our wee country.’
Principal Taylor clapped when she said this. All the teachers started clapping too. We copied them and clapped really hard. We didn’t know why we were clapping but Principal Taylor always says he wants to see best manners when there’s a visitor around. When everyone had run out of clap, Sinéad stuck the competition rules up on the overhead projector and went through them one by one. None of us really listened. We were only interested in the bit where it listed the prizes. First prize was a computer for the winner and five computers for their school. There were book tokens for second and third and some smaller prizes for the runners-up. None of us heard anything except free computers.
It wasn’t just us kids who lost the run of themselves. Miss McKeown tried to pretend the competition was just a bit of fun but you could tell she was already imagining where she’d put her new computers and all the projects we’d do on them. As soon as the special assembly was over, she herded us back to the classroom. There was still an hour and a half of maths left but she said we could forget about sums for one day. ‘While Sinéad’s important message is fresh in your minds,’ she said, ‘you should all start working on the competition.’ She took a piece of pink chalk and wrote the title in big capital letters across the blackboard. IMAGINE THE FUTURE. She made us get into small groups and start brainstorming about what we thought Ballylack would be like when we grew up.
I was sitting at the top table. Me and William are always sitting at the top table. Lizzy was there too because she’d done well on her Friday test. Mim hadn’t, but their mum kicks up a fuss when anyone tries to separate the Twins, so she was sitting next to her sister. I don’t like speaking out loud in groups. I have lots of thoughts inside my head. I just never know if they’re the right ones or which are OK to say out loud. There are three types of things I let myself say: things that are all right to say anytime, things – like stuff about church and Jesus – which I only talk to my parents about, and things I wouldn’t want them hearing, like ‘crap’, which is a word I sometimes say, under my breath, when I’m by myself and feeling fed up. I usually volunteer to take notes. It means I don’t have to speak. I wrote IMAGINE THE FUTURE across the top of my jotter page in bubble writing. Then I sat there quietly, scribbling down everything the other three said.
When it came to feedback time, all the groups had come up with roughly the same ideas. In the future we’d stay up late and set our own bedtimes. There’d be no homework or rules about what we could eat. Kids would be more important than adults. The adults would have to listen to us. School would only be three days a week and the summer would be six months long. Maths and geography wouldn’t exist. There’d be way more PE, dancing and good music. Mim made me write down Pop Music and underline it, so Miss McKeown knew we weren’t talking about classical.
Most of the things I wrote down were different from how I imagined the future myself. I wasn’t brave enough to say what I actually wanted to see: more people getting saved, less divorces and no more bombs. These were things I already asked Jesus for, every night, in my bedtime prayers.
Once Miss McKeown had heard all our ideas she stood in front of the blackboard for ages, just staring at the competition rules. ‘Right,’ she said eventually. She let the word right leak out like it was both a word and also a sigh. ‘You see, the thing is, I’m not sure they’re after essays about not having homework in the future or being able to drink as much cream soda as you fancy. I think they’re looking for something a bit more – how should I put this? – inspirational. Like about peace and getting along together. Do you know what I mean?’
We all looked at Miss McKeown like she was mad. We were eleven. Some of us were actually still ten. Half of us had never been out of Northern Ireland. Matty hadn’t been any further than the zoo. We could only imagine with the heads we had, and our heads were full of what we knew: school and church and the odd bus run up the North Coast. When we thought about the future, we couldn’t see past the end of Main Street. We couldn’t imagine what we didn’t know yet.
