The Fire Gospel, By Michel Faber

Theo Griepenkerl, a callow and charmless scholar of Aramaic, is scouring Iraq for ancient artefacts to take to Canada for safe-keeping when a bomb hits the museum he happens to be casing. Lucky for him: not only is an obstructive curator blown to pieces but so is a bas-relief goddess whose hollow belly reveals nine scrolls.

These are the gospel of Malchus, a garrulous forgotten disciple and eyewitness to the crucifixion. More than eyewitness, in fact: he was showered with urine during Christ's final throes, and managed to jot down the saviour's dying words: "Please, somebody, finish me." Even so, Malchus is a true believer. He is dying from a hideous gastric illness but that doesn't stop him exclaiming "Praise the Lord!" as a sort of conversational tic.

Theo, with an eye to the main chance, stashes the scrolls in his flat and starts pitching a translation. Having scored a quarter of a million dollars in advance from a small academic press whose biggest hit to date is a book of rhyming mnemonics for multiplication tables, fame and riches seem, well, at least possible. Yet Theo, in a lapse of common sense which is as typical for him as it would be implausible in anyone else, has failed to consider how Malchus's scabrous account might play in a sectarian world.

The Amazon.com reviews are only the first rumblings: "The man who wrote this thinks he has found something that was hidden for 2,000 years. In truth, nothing is found or not found unless God wills it." Or, "The so-called gospel of Malchus is a blatant forgery produced by Muslims to undermine our faith. It's been tried before. When will they learn?"

Soon the thrill of outselling Gone with the Wind and getting to sleep with scary-talented publishing reps has given way to a justified fear of assassination. Almost worse, the cycle of book signings and talk-show appearances is a bore. It does, however beat getting kidnapped by an Islamist fanatic and a David Icke-style Millennarian crank, as Theo discovers.

You'll have guessed by now that this is satire of the broadest sort. Faber's signature preoccupation with extreme grottiness, established in The Crimson Petal and the White (think Jane Eyre rewritten by William Vollmann) remains intact: The Fire Gospel's brief duration is fit to burst with seedy dwellings, open wounds and post-coital slumps. But alas, The Crimson Petal's imaginative suppleness and care haven't fared nearly so well.

Indeed, the present novel feels like hack work, dashed off. Its title notwithstanding, a parade of religious weirdos and some rote digs at the publishing industry do not an inspired text make. Nothing – except perhaps the Amazon pastiche, cheap shot though it is – feels closely observed or passionately invested. And, as it happens, the piece was commissioned as part of Canongate's otherwise surprisingly decent Myths series, so perhaps Faber didn't feel he had quite the free hand he would have liked.

Still, as another gun-for-hire has observed, you can't start a fire without a spark. "Gospel" usually translates as "good news". Not in this case.

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