The Raptures

Jan Carson

Doubleday, £14.99

Review by Rosemary Goring

When Jeanette Winterson published Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit, a fictionalised novel about growing up among evangelical Pentecostalists, some thought she was exaggerating. For those who hadn’t a clue how nutty Christian fundamentalists can be, this irreverent comedy was a revelation. Later, despite rejecting the religion she was raised in, Winterson wrote: “I am grateful for the Bible – its language, its story-telling, its certainties, its sense that the world is at once knowable and fully mysterious.”

Jan Carson, born in Country Antrim, is a very different writer, yet one suspects she might echo Winterson’s reflections on the formative literary influence of the Bible. This is not to say that Carson is Winterson’s heir. But, as a humorous chronicler of the wilder reaches of Christian fervour, as expressed in the volatile atmosphere of Ulster during the Troubles, she could be a distant cousin.

The Raptures is Carson’s fourth novel and, like much of her other work, takes place in Northern Ireland. The year is 1993, and it’s the end of June in Ballylack, where in summer, “if it isn’t raining, it’s considered ‘gorgeous out’ and not to be wasted”. A humdrum Protestant stronghold, which outsiders would describe as a “tight-knit community”, Ballylack is already anticipating with excitement the Orange marching season, which will soon be upon them.

Hannah, the only child of evangelical parents, can’t wait for the holidays. But, just as they begin, an unidentifiable disease begins to afflict her class and, one by one, her schoolmates sicken and die. Carson’s description of their deaths is unflinching, showing their final hours, and the raw grief of their parents. Perhaps her knowledge of the Troubles explains her tone, which combines deep sympathy with a sense of grim inevitability, and a leavening of humour. Certainly, The Raptures neither sentimentalises nor trivialises death. If it’s possible to be prosaic about the mounting death toll of children, and the afterlife that follows, then Carson scores top marks.

Hannah, an anxious, thoughtful 11-year-old, has few close friends because her life is governed by church shibboleths and edicts. Suddenly, however, she becomes the centre of attention. One night she finds the earliest victim of this plague sitting on the edge of the bath. He is the first emissary from the world beyond, but eventually all of the dead youngsters visit, to let her know how they are getting on. One school chum, who was badly neglected when alive, seems much less miserable: “Death suits him,” she thinks. “He seems so much healthier than before.”

Across the country, all eyes are on the dwindling number of pupils, and the race to find an antidote is the only hope for those not yet stricken. Other than Hannah, that is, whose medical tests show she has not been infected. Yet forces more powerful than science have been set loose in this tale, and nothing can be taken for granted.

Carson sets up her scenario with relish. Understanding how small communities tick, she portrays an everywhereville that is seething with problems. One dead school boy, who was shunned because his mother was Filipino, is scathing about his home town. In Ballylack, he tells Hannah: “You’re afraid of anything that’s different. You’re afraid of things changing. You’re afraid of everything staying the same … Basically, you’re all afraid of yourselves. None of you are half as nice and normal as you pretend to be.”

Told through various perspectives, but with Hannah at its heart, The Raptures is a galloping cautionary tale about family and community, belief and faith and why – or if – they matter. It has attitude, and many nice lines, but propulsive energy is insufficient. The plot is not merely tasteless but so far-fetched as to be risible. Unless, of course, you’re daft enough to believe in the supernatural.