Its beginnings were innocuous enough. Four words in fact.

“Stop that infernal ticking.”

At first, Mr Smith wondered whether his wife was talking to him. But as no one else had joined them in bed, it seemed likely.

“Ticking, dear?”

“Yes, that ticking noise,” she said, gesturing at him impatiently. “It’s disturbing my prayers.”

After thirty-five years of marriage, Mr Smith knew better than to disturb her prayers, so he held his breath in the somewhat optimistic hope that this would deter the ticking. Unfortunately, the ticking noise, now audible to him, and clearly oblivious to the niceties of religious devotion, continued unabated.

His wife, Bible primed, glowered.

“It’s not me, dear,” he protested, suspecting immediately that it was. “It’s probably the plumbing.”

“What nonsense, it’s that liver-sausage. You know liver-sausage doesn’t agree with you.”

It didn’t occur to Mr Smith to question Mrs Smith on the link between liver-sausage and ticking tummies, to ask her how the hell she supposed liver-sausage could cause ticking. Rather, as he always did on these occasions, he immersed himself in his favourite copy of Wisden, finding comfort in memories of the sight and sound of leather on willow. Mrs Smith, for her part, settled down to her preferred bedtime reading, The Book of Job. She enjoyed nothing better before sleep than to dream up new and ingenious misfortunes to test the faith of that so righteous man.

In the morning, the ticking was worse. Mrs Smith was compelled to reconsider her liver-sausage theory and opined that forces more sinister were at work. Mr Smith was more concerned with breakfast than sinister forces, but even he began to imagine himself a giant alarm clock. Little was said while they ate, until Mr Smith hit upon the notion that an impromptu alarm clock impression might do something to lighten the atmosphere. Unfortunately, Mrs Smith was not in the mood to be lightened, or perhaps her comic sensibilities were offended, either way, breakfast ended on a sour note.

Happily, there was no time to dwell on the unpleasantness. It was Sunday morning and church beckoned. In fact, for Mrs Smith, it would be more accurate to say that it summoned or subpoenaed. Mr Smith experienced the pull less strongly, but he found his wife strangely motivating, and in any case the five minute walk to Golspie Evangelical Free Church was agreeable enough.

The events that unfolded in the church that morning have been the subject of endless debate and commentary. In the immediate aftermath, everybody spoke with a single voice. It had been a terrible, but inexplicable tragedy. However, disagreements soon emerged, with claim and counter-claim flowing fast. High Church Christians thought the explosion a warning that people really shouldn’t enjoy themselves too much in church. Low Church Christians blamed the Pope. The Psychic Times ran an article titled “Spontaneous Combustion: Explosive New Evidence”. The Skeptic Magazine countered with “Spontaneous Combustion: The Myth Exploded”. Politicians blamed each other, asylum seekers and the credit crunch. Strangest of all, a group calling themselves Rage Against Campanology were keen to claim responsibility. However, the RAC, as they called themselves – much to the consternation of many road users – were later forced to retract their claim when it was pointed out that the Evangelical Free Church had had neither bell ringers nor bells. But, of course, what got lost in all the hullabaloo is that there is no simple truth about what happened that Sunday morning. Truth and fiction, as many first year philosophy students will tell you, have been the same thing for at least thirty years.

The church that morning was filled with a high octane, spiritual bonhomie. Mrs Smith was in her element. She had sung uproariously, arms flung to the heavens, the opening hymn, a disco version of Onward Christian Soldiers. She had listened rapt, as Dave – If my Christian name is okay for God, it’s okay for you – the microphone toting preacher, had explained to them that the Toronto Experience, all roaring and meowing, was part of the chaos of End-Times. And she had joined in the rapturous applause, after Maureen had testified that God had granted her a personal miracle and banished her bunions. And so it was, in the visceral exuberance of the occasion, that she found herself on her feet shouting, “Yes, yes, my husband, my husband,” after Dave had enquired, all basso profondo compassion, whether anyone in the congregation was fighting a personal battle with the Devil.

Mr Smith, it must be said, was a little taken aback by this turn of events. He felt the eyes of the congregation upon him, and imagined himself a lion, tables turned, at a Billy Graham revivalist meeting. Preacher Dave, in contrast, looked overjoyed at the prospect of doing battle with the Devil.

“Mr Smith, will you please approach the stage.”

He meant to refuse, to stay steadfastly where he was. But as the church fell silent in expectation, he experienced first-hand the irresistible power of the crowd. Suddenly, Nuremberg rallies, all serried ranks, seemed explicable. He was aware that in the silence, the ticking of his stomach was audible. He moved towards the stage, on the way passing Maureen, of bunion fame, and reached Dave, preacher and Smiter of  Demons.

“Hello,” said Mr Smith.

Dave peered at Mr Smith suspiciously, as if “Hello” was not the kind of greeting he expected from the Devil.

“Mr Smith, your wife has testified before this church, that you are presently doing battle with the Devil. In the name of the Lord, I command you to disclose the nature of this battle.”

“Well, Dave,” said Mr Smith, “I can only imagine that my wife is referring to the strange ticking noise that seems to be emanating from my stomach. But I hardly imagine…”.

“Don’t!” screeched Dave. “Don’t for one moment underestimate the cunning of Satan. He takes many forms. Just remember the Serpent!”

Mr Smith was about to protest that Serpents were one thing, alarm clocks quite another, when he was bashed in the stomach by Smiter Dave’s microphone. The sound of ticking immediately filled the church. There was a collective congregational gasp, and assorted Hallelujahs, Amens and Praise the Lords. Even Mr Smith was momentarily disconcerted.

“That,” cried Dave, “is the sound of the Devil!” With his free hand, he grabbed the top of Mr Smith’s head and pulled down hard. Mr Smith was bent almost double.

“I say, steady on,” he gasped.

“Devil, I command you in the name of the Lord, be gone from this man’s body. I cast you back into The Pit!”

The congregation was on its feet, many people with arms stretched out towards the sky. They were calling to Dave, to the Lord, to anybody listening, to rid Mr Smith of his tick-tocking Devil. Mr Smith was hauled up again, and the congregation were commanded to silence. The hubbub died down. The Smiter of Demons placed his free hand on Mr Smith’s forehead, and with eyes half closed began, softly at first and then more loudly, to speak in tongues.

“Deshil holles eamus. Deshil holles eamus. Hoopsa boyaboy hoopsa! Hoopsa boyaboy hoopsa!”

The congregation, as one, followed his example. The noise levels swelled again, and the drunken, ecstatic mass of the fervent faithful swayed in a visceral union. Mr Smith began to shake and, unable to bear the intensity of the sound any longer, he screamed. As he did so, an alarm went off inside his stomach. The congregation were stunned into a gaping silence. The ringing skewered the air, and then, as abruptly as it had started, it stopped and with it the ticking noise.

There was absolute silence, save for the breathing of the assembled masses. And then, turning to his congregation, Dave proclaimed, with all the fervour he could muster, “We have heard the music of angels.”

It sounded like a bloody alarm clock to me, thought Mr Smith, a split second before the explosion.