The Last Days of Jack Sparks (2 page)

Jack Sparks on Gangs
(Erubis, 2012) saw him dive headlong into choppier waters, perhaps as a result of the first book’s mixed reviews. I had my concerns about my brother mixing with violent gangs and documenting his discoveries, but of course there was no use in pressing such points with Jack.

Gangs
won the Sara Thornwood Prize. It was undeniably insightful, and broadened my own views on gang culture, in both Britain and America. Around this time, Jack established himself as a prominent atheist and began to make guest appearances on UK TV panel shows like
Never Mind the Buzzcocks
,
Would I Lie To You?
and
Shooting Stars
.

His third book was his most divisive to date. The title alone,
Jack Sparks on Drugs
(Erubis, 2014), ensured plenty of free publicity, but the concept was for my brother to try every drug under the sun and document his experiences. I was very much against him doing it, and our relationship fell on stony ground as a result of this and other matters at the time. It didn’t help that drugs had made Jack more difficult and headstrong than ever. Our parting of ways – even after he entered rehab that summer – is something I shall always regret.

I am only too aware that Jack’s final book, which he originally intended to be called
Jack Sparks on the Supernatural
, has been controversial from the moment its release was announced.

I have now experienced every conceivable online attack on me, including direct threats on my life and those of my family. One troll even turned up on our doorstep one night armed with a meat cleaver. She is now behind bars.

While there has been considerable support for this book, many have called for it to be banned. To some, it must feel like a cold, cynical and rather distasteful cash-in on my part, especially as Jack had no dependants. I’ve stated this on social media several times, but such words are easily lost amid the deafening hubbub – a portion of my fee will be divided between prominent motor neurone disease charities around the world. I have absolutely no desire to profit from my brother’s death, which I am still coming to terms with. Working on this book has been deeply cathartic. Jack’s editor of five years, Eleanor Rosen, has been nothing but accommodating throughout, while standing up to me where necessary.

We are fortunate indeed that my brother always wrote his books during the process of researching them. While others might squirrel away a horde of recorded interviews, thoughts and scribbled notes, electing to deal with them all together at the end, Jack wanted to get it
down
. He hated interview transcription and so dealt with that workload in chunks as he went.

While co-editing this book, Eleanor and I have corrected only small, inconsequential typos and errors, while vitally retaining the format and feel of Jack’s writing, especially in the book’s second half, when it becomes very different. Dividing the book into two sections was our decision. To her eternal credit, Eleanor supported my push to retain Jack’s written notes directed at her, which are peppered throughout his text.

I extend my heartfelt gratitude and condolences to the families of the deceased, who mostly gave permission for their loved ones’ true identities to be used. Other names have been changed. Believe me, the decision to publish
Jack Sparks on the Supernatural
in its entirely uncensored form was in no way taken lightly, and I know how very difficult it is for the bereaved to read accounts of such horrendous events. Yet I also hope this book may yield some form of closure and put an end to unhelpful internet speculation – not least concerning the nature of my brother’s death.

I would like to thank my beautiful wife Chloe and our children Sophie and Xanna for their incredible support.

How I wish Jack had never attended that exorcism.

How I wish he had never laid eyes on that YouTube video.

Rest in peace, my brother, and please know that I forgive you.

Alistair Sparks: ‘Jack’s former agent Murray Chambers has supplied me with this email exchange, which began the day after my brother attended the exorcism in Italy.’

Before we vanish into Satan’s gaping mouth, Bex wants to get something straight.

Sitting beside me in a very small car, she says, ‘So your new book’s going to be about the supernatural. Which you don’t believe in. At all.’

‘It’s already riling people,’ I tell her. ‘Did you see the bust-up yesterday?’

She scrunches her face. ‘Why can’t you accept that social media isn’t a part of my life?’

‘Because I don’t believe you.’

‘Last time I looked, in about 2009, social media was one big room full of people not listening to each other, shouting, “My life’s great!” I doubt this has changed.’

‘So why are you still
on
there?’
¹

Bex makes her frustrated, dismissive noise: the sound of a brief, chaotic catfight. ‘I have
profiles
, Jack, so old friends can catch up, but I don’t read anything. Social media makes me think less of people. I’d rather not know all the self-obsessed shit in their heads.’

‘How selfish of you.’

‘Won’t this book be kind of
short
? Just a great big atheist travelling round the world saying “Bullshit” a lot?’

I frown at her underestimation of the concept. ‘Obviously I’m going to keep it rational. But I’ll also keep a completely open mind. Social media’s full of people who think ghosts are real, so I’ll give them a chance to guide me in the right direction. I’ve got this ongoing list of hypotheses for paranormal phenomena, which I’m calling SPOOKS. That’s short for—’

‘I think I can do without knowing.’

‘And when the book’s done, I can at least tell all the mad believers, “Look, you had your chance to convince me and you blew it.”’

‘How very magnanimous of you.’

My hopeless love for Bex intensifies when she employs long words and sarcasm together. Long-time readers will recall her as the late-twenties fitness instructor I’ve known and shared a flat with too long for anything to happen between us. They’ll also know I’ve found it challenging to listen to her banging men in an adjacent bedroom. This may explain why my books tend to involve travel. (By the way, she doesn’t bang loads of men. She’s not like that. She’s been seeing a guy called Lawrence for six months, even if he is a smarmy chinless loser. And he is.)

I can openly discuss this love of mine because Bex doesn’t actually read my books. ‘Jack, I
live
with you,’ she once said while we half watched
EastEnders
and fully ate Chinese food on our big fat yellow sofa. ‘I don’t actually need to read these books. Why would I want to relive you overdosing on coke in our toilet?’

Apart from making the mistake of not reading my books, Bex is the most sensible person I know. In truth, I always seek her approval on my book ideas. Which makes me want to win her around on this one.

A burst of power makes our very small car rattle and hum. We roll forwards with a creak.

‘So,’ she says. ‘How was Greece?’

‘
Italy
,’ I say, forced to raise my voice as people start squealing behind us. ‘It caused the big bust-up. I did a bad thing and got yelled at by an exorcist.’

‘On Halloween. Perfect.’

‘Then I saw this weird YouTube video.’

Bex processes all this information. As our car gains speed, she settles on a question: ‘What video?’

‘I’ll tell you after this.’

And into the mouth we go.

So I’m deep in rural Italy, over twenty-four hours ago. The first stop on my epic journey into the supernatural world, which will see me visit a combat magician in Hong Kong, a ??? in ??? and a ??? in ???, not to mention a ??? in ???
(Eleanor: I’ll fill these in later, once I know who I’m actually meeting and where I’m going. If I forget, you can do the honours.)

I am about to enter a church.

The ancient building sits isolated and forlorn on a hill that becomes a sheer cliff face on one side. Hurl a stone from up here and it vanishes halfway down, caught by the twisted, arthritic fingers of bare trees. This church, this stone sentinel, keeps watch over dense woodland and clustered hills that mark the horizon.

Inside, it is functional, relatively bare bones. There are still a few of the usual looming statues calculated to intimidate and belittle, plus a few glistening symbols of opulence and power. Yet the most elaborate feature is the stained-glass window in the back wall, shot through with winter sun.

I always think the beauty of stained-glass windows is wasted on a church.

Everything is so quiet and serene, you’d scarcely credit the fact that in ninety minutes we’ll need an ambulance.

Arriving half an hour late at 1.30 p.m., I barrel in looking windswept and interesting. Eighty-year-old Father Primo Di Stefano greets me with a stiff smile and matching handshake. Sporting a large black frock, he is flanked by two frosty aides, who are both short and stocky, in black shirts and grey trousers. The only real visual difference between these two is that one has facial hair, so let’s call them Beard and Beardless. I also have a handy Italian translator at my disposal, named Tony. So he’ll be Translator Tony, obviously. Despite his werewolf-hairy hands, a monobrow crowning shifty brown eyes, and teeth you could ride a Kawasaki between, Tony’s the only halfway personable guy here. We bond over a cigarette outside, when he admires my brass Zippo. A dull, tarnished old thing these days, but it does the job.

Di Stefano does not run this church. To all intents and purposes, the priest is a guest here, like me. One of the Pope’s most trusted foot soldiers, he is based in Rome and has travelled many miles to commandeer the place on a mission of mercy. Specifically, he has come to drive the Devil out of a thirteen-year-old girl with the use of words, gestures and a great deal of biblical
Sturm und Drang
. This man claims to have carried out over two hundred exorcisms. As a purely incidental side effect, this has provided him with material for a lucrative string of books detailing his crusades. The titles include
At War with the Devil
,
My Lifelong Battle with the Antichrist
and of course
Satan & I
. That last title is my favourite, like a wacky sitcom. ‘In this week’s episode of
Satan & I
, Father Di Stefano attempts to throw a house party for friends, only for his mischievous flatmate Satan to slay them all while denouncing God!’