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plunged to his death, which was never quite a death after all.

Chapter Three
    The church of christ returning was a cavernous room and, even festooned with white banners adorned with gold crosses, it still looked like the warehouse it used to be. Two, perhaps three hundred, shiny-faced, well-groomed worshippers filled row upon row of white folding chairs set up on the concrete floor. Outside, the day was raw and sleety, grey as dirty wool. The air inside was slightly too warm, and heavily scented with a mixture of flowery-sweet perfume, hairspray and coffee-breath. A large podium accommodated Reverend Ken Hickland and his wife, Stella, as well as the visiting pastor Bobby Dash, Reverend Dash’s wife, Carolyn, and an enthusiastic, if not entirely tuneful, choir. Dorothy Carlisle looked around at the people holding hands, swaying, their eyes closed. She wondered if there was a required uniform women were supposed to wear at The Church of Christ Returning these days. Certainly, she seemed to be the only woman not wearing a pastel pantsuit over a frilly blouse. Well, to be fair there were several frilly blouse-skirt combinations and a couple of frilly dresses. Still, it seemed an inordinate amount of frill, and a quite unnecessary quantity of pastel, particularly for this time of year. Dorothy herself was dressed in black pants, a copper blouse and a taupe wrap, which she felt was the appropriate attire not only for March, but for a woman of sixty-two. Certainly far more appropriate than the garden-party attire of Mabel McQuaid, to her left, who was in fact slightly older than Dorothy, although she wouldn’t admit it. Mabel squeezed her hand, as if aware of Dorothy’s unchristian thoughts.
    Reverend Hickland’s voice boomed over the PA system. “When I see these terrorists, I know Satan is at work. He has made himself manifest in the false prophets of the world. But I tell you, Satan is in a mess. He’s frightened, frightened because so many Muslims are turning to Jesus.” Reverend Hickland wore his trademark white suit and shoes and belt. He stomped his foot and looked heavenward. “Yes, praise the Lord!”
    â€œPraise the Lord,” came the congregation’s respondent cry.
    â€œOh, yes! Satan is stirring up the Muslims, but we are winning. How do I know we’re winning? I know because that’s what the back of the Book says!”
    â€œPraise the Lord!”
    The band and the choir kicked up a notch, the drum beat steady and penetrating, and the voices rhythmic. Dorothy gently released her hand from Mabel’s fleshy, overly-firm grip. “Arthritis,” she said, rubbing her fingers, when Mabel looked questioningly at her. Although mortifying to admit, possibly simple curiosity had made Dorothy agree to attend this morning’s service at the all new and improved Church of Christ Returning. What did people see in all this emotion and hysteria?
    Dorothy Carlisle had a deep faith that an ineffable God existed, but believed there was no need for so much, well, thrashing about. All this praising, weeping and squeezing of hands was not only a little embarrassing, but felt inauthentic. As though these people, swaying now, some of them rocking back and forth, tears on their cheeks, hands reaching heavenward, were looking not for the solace of Christ, but for some sort of slightly questionable ecstatic experience. The expression on some of her neighbours’ faces was vaguely sexual.
    The Church of Christ Returning, whether in this new building, or in the old clapboard in town, had always been at the centre of Gideon, the heart of its beliefs and behaviour. Members of other faiths would surely be locked out of heaven due to their lack of a true, intimate, personal relationship with Jesus—a Jesus who apparently had gone before them to build a house of very limited capacity, since there was much talk of the chosen few. A Jesus who, although he had been known to spend much