I remember being told a story about a city. It was an ancient city, a city of towers and walls in the desert. The people who lived there were rich, and they were proud. I used to imagine the men of this proud place, so far away. They wore silk clothes in the colours of jewels, shining gold bracelets tightly on their arms—and a perfume, frankincense. I wasn’t sure what frankincense smelled like, but it suited them, I thought, those wealthy, powerful men with their beautiful, thick beards and their grand stone houses. They had horses, too, great galloping stallions—and swords, long curved blades that they’d grip at their waists with ferocious hands.
As it happens this city, along with everyone in it, was burnt to a crisp. It was like the eruption from a volcano, Nick said, the inferno that roasted every inch of the place to ashes. Angels did it, he said. They were furious, red-hot angry, because they’d paid a visit to the city and, when they did, the men wanted to do bad things to them. I was never sure exactly what, Nick never told us that bit, though I can imagine now. Nick never told us anything about how the men were perfumed with beautiful beards either. But it felt right to me.
Nick used to tell us stories like that on a Friday night. I looked forward to it. I liked Nick because even though he was a proper grown up—he was about to go to university—he always remembered my name. I especially liked watching Nick on the little stage, talking down at us cross-legged on the floor. I didn’t always listen very hard. I used to think about his skin, which was browner than mine. Often I wondered whether his dick was the same colour, or darker still. The textbook we had for Biology at school said the skin down there is always darker. One day, when it was really hot, he wore shorts—I could see up to his thighs, to where the hairy skin bulged away into shadow. I felt a tightness at the bottom of my belly and looked away.
One evening, Nick did a special session for the boys in the youth club. It was called Text A Question. The girls were all led off into another room, leaving the twenty of us in front of the stage, where a monitor was set up. We were allowed to text questions, anything we wanted, about what Nick called “boy stuff.” We all sat there awkwardly with our phones in our hands, puzzling over what to say. But after a moment or two a question appeared on the screen.
I fancy a girl at church. Should I ask her out? said the first one. It wasn’t mine. There was jostling among the boys, and Nick smiled at this, his nice big smile, and explained that it’s OK to have a girlfriend, but that things only get serious once you’re married. Nick knew about these things. He was engaged himself, to a girl called Laura, who was also going to university soon. But when he showed us a picture of him and Laura together on his phone, I felt strange.
Next question. Is it OK to masturbate?
The boys around me sniggered. I went red. Talking about that, even through a secret text message, made me embarrassed. Nick looked serious. “I know it’s funny,” he said, “but this question is really important. You might feel the urge to touch yourself there,” and at this he paused, looking at us. The room had gone silent. “But Christian men resist the temptation,” he went on, “because to do it is wrong. It says so in the Bible. The good news though is that God is stronger than your urges. He can help you overcome anything.”
Everyone was silent, contemplating this. I’d never heard an adult even say the word, let alone talk about it openly. It was hard not to think of the other boys doing what I did late at night—pulling on themselves under cover of darkness, trying to do it as motionlessly as possible, so as not to make a sound.
I only thought about Nick sometimes.
“When you feel like doing it, just pray,” said Nick, smiling his lovely smile. “Pray and you won’t have the urge anymore.”
I wanted to believe him.
Around me, boys were typing quickly, emboldened. I felt it too—an excitement, reckless and frightening. I decided to send mine.
A third set of words came up on the screen. What if I like boys?
There was an uproar. Two of the boys in front of me turned to each other, making faces of disgust. I felt even hotter, warmth spreading all over my face.
Next to me, Jack from school looked horrified.
“Is someone here gay?” he said, mouth gawping.
The way he said it reminded me of the corridors between lessons, where boys sang the word out with voices made unnaturally deep, a long mocking vowel. All it took was the hint that a boy was not quite right and he’d be singled out. As if there was a smell, pungent, that marked him out as different.
“Boys,” said Nick, raising his voice. His face was grave. “Listen to me.”
The room went quiet again.
“Sometimes, very rarely, people feel attracted to the same sex as them. You might even see things on the TV that make it seem OK. The thing is, boys, it’s a choice. And it’s not the choice God wants you to make.”
He was very sure of what he was saying.
“If one of you is having these feelings, you don’t need to struggle with it alone. We can help you through this,” he went on. He was smiling again, beaming out at us. “I won’t ask who sent that now, but I’d like whoever it was to talk to me at the end of the session.”
The idea of speaking to Nick alone made my heart beat faster. But I didn’t say anything.
–
Just before the lava started to rain down, when smoking hot coals were broiling in the sky, the man who’d had the angels to stay left the city. He jumped onto his stallion, gave it a kick, and off they galloped.
Behind him was his wife, on her own, smaller horse. She was wrapped hastily in one of her richly embroidered dresses, her dark hair streaming out, loose and wild. Behind her followed her two daughters, almost identical. They dropped their toys and ran out, leaving the front door swinging open in the sooty gale. They rushed to the stables, pounced on the last horse—practically a pony—that was cowering in the corner, then clung to its mane as it skittered out behind the grown-ups.
Only the four of them escaped, apparently. I found it hard to believe that, faced with a gravity-defying firestorm that was guaranteed to roast you alive, you’d stay put. But the men of the city were headstrong. They probably figured they’d take their chances. Or perhaps they wanted to be burnt up, for whatever reason. The more I thought about them, the more they fascinated me.
–
They say you never really leave a church.
Not when you’ve grown up there. It sticks to you, in some deep oily way. I could always tell, whenever I met someone after I’d left, if they’d been part of a church too. It was like a smell. Unmistakable.
Nick never left me, either. It’s not like I’m always thinking about him. But he was there. I’d remember his funny ways of saying certain things. The way he’d pronounce names from the Bible. His big, confident laugh.
Sometimes I’d catch sight of someone in passing, on the train or in a shop, and my chest would tighten. I’d think—Nick!
Occasionally, when I was masturbating, and about to come, I’d think of him, almost without meaning to. I’d picture the colour of his skin beneath his shorts, or his face, flushed in a way I’d never seen it in real life.
I’d not kept in touch with him, nor anyone from church for that matter, after I left to go to university. Until one day, as I sat restlessly at my laptop, failing to look for a graduate job, I decided to search his name.
Finding him again took seconds. That was him, the third profile in the list, with a photo of him at the beach, with two children, two little girls. It took me a while to realise that these must be his daughters. I clicked on his profile and scrolled through, pulse racing, at the evidence of a family life. There was Laura, the same young wife; there were the daughters, Mia and Ava, being held tenderly, cuddled close.
Nick must be a good Dad, I thought. He’ll really care for them.
I couldn’t stop thinking about him after that. At odd times of day—soaping myself in the shower, just before falling asleep—I’d remember how grown-up he looked, how different he was now with his moustache and his man’s body. I started to imagine a conversation with him, a chance to tell him what I’d done since moving away, to finally tell him the truth. Maybe he’d even changed his mind about things. It had been a long time, after all.
I held back from messaging him for weeks, until I couldn’t resist anymore.
Hey Nick, I wrote. I’m not sure if you remember me. It’s Michael, I was in the youth club at St Luke’s. It’s been a while! I’m back in London after uni and was wondering if you wanted to get coffee. I’d love to pick your brains about something. Let me know
I sat staring at what I’d written for ages. Then without looking again, I pressed send.
Almost immediately, the little circle next to my words changed into a miniature picture of him. He’d read it.
No reply came for three days. Then, there it was. An unread message. I clicked immediately.
Mate, of course I remember you! You’re part of the family. I’m working on the Southbank now, how about we grab coffee in Waterloo over lunch? How’s Wednesday?
It was still incredible to think of him spending time messaging me, just me. I didn’t hesitate.
Wednesday’s great, whenever you’re free. Smile emoji.
A day later, another message.
1pm here?, with a link to a coffee shop behind the station.
It was happening.
I told myself that this was a brave thing to do, meeting Nick to tell him who I was now. I told myself I’d feel better afterwards.
Perfect, see you then! I replied.
I was seeing Nick again.
–
I can’t stop looking at him, standing at the counter, in his shirt that’s so tight around his shoulders. I force my eyes away before he turns round.
A tray clatters down in front of me. Nick’s back, handing me my latte, which has shuddered over onto the saucer. He’s smiling.
“So tell me, Michael, you just graduated, right?” he says.
“Uh, yeah. Over the summer.”
“What did you do again?”
“Oh, I did biochemistry. I really enjoyed—”
“How’s the job hunt going? Found something yet?”
“I’m still looking, actually”
“You know, we’ve got a grad scheme at my place,” he says. “I think you’ve missed this year’s deadline, but you could try in September. Consultancy’s a great career.”
“Yeah, I might,” I say. I take a sip of coffee. It burns.
“Mate, I can’t believe how quickly time flies. We’ve missed you around at St Luke’s. But I bet you found a decent new church.”
“Oh yeah, I tried a couple at uni. Didn’t find the right fit though.”
I trail off, and Nick’s biting into a brownie, eyes closing for a moment at the pleasure of it. There’s a smear of brown on his top lip. Then he’s looking at me again.
“So tell me,” he says, wiping away at his mouth, “you said you wanted to chat something over. I always told you boys I was here for advice, and I meant it. I’m all ears.”
I could just stop here. Nothing’s forcing me to go any further.
Nick’s looking at me, expectant.
“Well, like I said… I’ve not really been going to church lately,” I say, “it’s been tough with finals, to be honest, and—”
He’s still looking at me.
“And… I’m not sure I’m that welcome these days.”
“Michael. You are always welcome at church.” His hand is on my arm, as he says that, fingers curling around my elbow. His wedding ring is pressing cold against me. “You know that.”
“No, Nick, it’s that—well, I realised, a few years ago now, that I’m, I’m gay.”
I breathe in. He’s still smiling at me.
“I know that’s against our teaching. But I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and I’ve realised that, maybe, it’s OK. That it’s not a problem. That maybe it’s the church that’s been getting it wrong.”
He’s waiting for me to finish.
“Michael, I’m really grateful you shared that with me.” His hand is still on my arm. “How long have you been struggling with this?”
“How long have I been gay? I guess, well—maybe I’ve always been this way.”
“And have you acted on them? These feelings?”
“I—acted on them?”
His voice is gentler now.
“Like you said, you know the teaching on this, Michael. You know what the Bible says.”
He’s on the stage again, looking down at me, cross-legged.
“You’ve been to uni, I get it. You’re exposed to a lot of people there. A lot of ideas. It’s a confusing place. But you know what God really thinks.”
There’s a rush to my eyes, my throat. Burning.
“Like I said, I’ve done a lot of thinking, and it’s not that—”
“Michael. You know it doesn’t matter what you think. Or what I think. This is about the law. God’s law.”
I don’t say anything.
“I want you to know something,” he says. His hand is getting tighter around my arm now, he’s leaning in. “Michael, you are loved. So gloriously loved. No matter what you’ve done, God loves you. I love you.”
I thought his love would flatten me.
“Can I pray for you?”
It’s so familiar, so homely. I find myself nodding.
“Jesus Lord,” he says. Nick’s closed his eyes, but his voice still rings out. I look anxiously up at the people around us. A woman in front of her laptop is looking over, alarmed. But he carries on, pushing forward into the prayer—and the easiest thing to do is close my eyes too.
“I want to lift Michael up to you, Lord. He’s struggling, really struggling with same-sex attraction. Lord I want him to know that he is loved. That he doesn’t need to fight this alone.”
Daylight window blares into my eyelids. Nick’s hand is firm on my arm, his voice is deep and sure.
“Your grace can redeem anyone, God. I pray you’ll redeem Michael, too. Give him the grace he needs.”
How full his voice sounds. It’s like he’s welling up. He’s practically bursting with how much love is inside him. I knew some of it was for me.
“In Jesus’ name. Amen.”
I’m safe in this place. But it’s already dissolving around me.
“Michael.”
I open my eyes, and Nick’s staring at me. Looking into the deep brown of his eyes I start to tremble.
“I’m really glad you reached out to me, Michael. You’re not alone.”
“Sure,” I say.
“I’d like us to do this again. I can help you, Michael. And we can find you a church to be part of.”
Seeing him there, leaning over, radiating that proud love all over me, I think, I’ll stay just a second longer.
–
They got out of range just in time, the father and his wife and the two daughters, just as the first coals started to hit the city, scorching through stone like knives through butter. The horses were streaming with sweat now, but still the father drove his forward. Behind him the wife and her daughters clung on, begging their beasts to keep up as the heat from the city seared into their backs.
By now cries of agony were rising on the wind. Just then, I imagined the horses curving behind an outcrop of rock, taking the family away towards a new horizon. And at that moment, perhaps out of regret, perhaps curiosity—who knows why— the wife turns round. One last glance at the place she called home. What’s the harm?
But then something happens. She goes pale, deathly pale. Her hair frizzes out in all directions. She tries to turn back around but she can’t, her arms are stuck to her horse’s neck. Her legs feel like stones. Then her skin gets dry, parched by an invisible wind—how it itches!—until it’s nothing but scales, huge and crispy, reaching all down her body. Then it’s over. She’s a woman made of salt, her horse too.
I never quite understood what it meant, turning into a pillar of salt. But I used to think about her, that woman looking back at the city, thinking of the wonderful riches within it, all the beautiful men inside, licking her lips and tasting the sea, then nothing. She was the biggest lesson of the whole story, Nick used to say. Don’t turn away from your faith, don’t get seduced by a sinful world, or something like that. I’m not sure what sense you can make out of these stories, to be honest with you. All I know is that, if I were in her shoes, I’d have done the same.
JOSEPH NICHOLSON lives in London. He writes fiction and film criticism as a salve for a day job in advertising.