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Claiming sactuary in a church, a man unwittingly overhears a chilling confession... |
| [Introduction]
I've got two campfires running already, but I thought I'd step out of my comfort zone for this one... In the dead of night, a man bursts into an ancient church seeking sactuary. Finding no priest and in desperate need of refuge, he quickly enters the confessional boothe and tries his best to hide himself. Scared and paniced, he listens intently for any sign that his hiding place has been betrayed, but hears nothing. Finally thinking himself safe, he begins to move. A sudden noise from the back of the church makes him freeze. He huddles himself close within the four wooden walls, panic filling his very essence. He listens to gentle footsteps against stone. To his horror, they cease just outside the confessional. As the boothe adjacent to his is filled, he wishes he knew more about religion and the priesthood. What is he running from? What does he hear? Ultimately, what happens??? It's all up to you. Enjoy :) |
| The church spire was gaunt and menacing agaisnt the black sky. The light of the moon trickled down through an overcast sky, casting eerie shadows over the long gravestones of the Ailmanbrooke Church. If ever there was a night more fitting for the dead to walk the land, John had yet to see it. And John had seen many nights. It came with the territory. He did not know why he had headed for the church. He had long since given up on God; on salvation, on hope. But the ancient Church had somehow drawn him to it - the stone walls sang of peace and tranquility. Soft, chilled raindrops were beginning to fall as John pulled his collar up higher against the cold. It was a brisk night, with little wind. Cold and still. Like the dead. He reached the gate just as the clouds burst. He stole a glance back down the way he had come. There was nothing. The stillness resisted the rains will for but a few seconds before the hammering of water on cobblestones filled John's ears. But though mind danced in security, another sense deep in his gut told him otherwise. The shadows had eyes. John prayed the rain obscured those eyes as much as it did his own. He pushed the gate open slowly, the metal rusty against his palm. He inwardly braced himself for the horror-film creak. It did not come. A whistle of wind brought John back to reality. He hurried up the path towards the chruch's heavy side door. The wet, white gravestones reflected the moonlight on either side; forever reminding him of a possible end. A grave was a luxury. He reached the door and again looked back down the way he had come. What was that down on the road? He blinked hurriedly, feeling the panic rising in his chest. It was gone. Or was it? Turning back to the door, John realised his hands had already found the handle. This was no time to lose his cool. When the door did not respond to his pull, he began tugging frantically. He clenched his teeth, feeling a growing presence behind him. A growing urgency. He needed to get in. With a small grunt of effort, the stiff door slid open, grating against the stones beneath. He slipped inside and hastily closed the door behind him. He had not ment to slam it, but the boom reverberated through the massive empty church. He shuffled out into the middle of the room, between the pews. A squelch reminded him that he was soaking wet. He looked back and saw a trail of water leading to his feet from the door. As dark as it was, it would be easy to see. I still have time, he told himself, I can still fix this. He stooped and threw off his coat. He hurled it, uncaring, halfway across the room, cold water flecking his face. He peeled off his soaked shoes and with a small sob of futility threw them away. Then he stripped off his shirt and began mopping at the water trail of death behind him. John got halfway to the door before he could not take it any longer. The church was so big. It had seemed so welcoming from outside. But now he was inside, it was just a shell. An empty shell without answers. He collapsed to the cold floor. There was wetness on his face that was not rain. His time was running out. He felt the sharp laugh of the pointlessness of it all, leering at him from the back of his mind. For a second, suicide toyed with his survival instinct - an ethreal cat batting a struggling mouse. Then he saw it. The confessional. A small booth of peace. A hiding place. A last chance for life, for his soul. Half-naked and shivering, John staggered like a drunkard into the booth on the priest's side. He sat on the hard, wooden bench and drew his knees up around his chest. He felt safe. He had refound his childhood comfort. His breathing slowed and he felt the fatigue of his flight. The soft wings of sleep began to wrap their warmth around him... John awoke with a start. He was not alone. This was the end. |
| John was very quiet, hoping the person would leave, but leave they did not. Instead the person began to speak. “Forgive me father for I have sinned. It has been 3 years since my last confession. I’ve lied and cheated my way through life. I take the lords name in vain often, and I…” she hesitated for a moment, “I’ve been having an affair. But..it's worse than that. I'm pregnant. My husband doesnt know. But, oh father, it gets worse! The parent of my unborn child is the Arichbishop! I'm so ashamed. He knows that I'm pregnant with his child, but he paid me to keep quiet and leave town. I know it was wrong - but what is one wrong in a life of sin? - so I took the money and I am leaving behind my husband and life here. It's weighed on my mind father, I needed to confess to someone the truth of the matter.” John was silent, unsure of what to say to this woman, though she seemed to be waiting for him to respond. “That is all I can think of,” she said after several minutes. John stammered, only to be interrupted. “Father Batte? Is that you, I imagined you… your voice to sound… older” John's mind was blank. He was usually so good at lying. He calmed himself and began to speak. |
| "It is I, my child. You would be suprised how such things, child" he replied almost naturally; he was good at lying under pressure, "Now, do you repent of your sins? Do you seek forgiveness?" "Of course, I've never been more sorry in my life!" "Then the Lord forgives. Go, and sin no more." Impersonating a member of the Clergy - another sin to add to the list, but John had long since turned his back on the church. Not to God, he would argue; merely the corruption inherent in those with power. "But what about my husband?" He should have told her to pray, that God would give her the answers she sought, but instead: "Go to him; tell him what you have done. If the Lord wills it, you will be forgiven. A child is a blessing, remember that, take comfort in it." "Yes, thank you Father." She left hurriedly. Now John sat alone in the confessional. His advice had been off the cusp, un-catholic in the extreme; it troubled him to consider the consequences for the poor woman, but he would be gone soon; it didn't matter. The experience had somehow calmed him, emptied his mind of the worries of but moments before. He stepped back out into the darkness and uncertain moonlight that came and went like the tide through the still open door, and surveyed the building, rain streaming down stained glass, the air cold and close, the grandeur of the architechture matched only by the sickening sense of fear. The fear instilled in the hearts of the congregation, the unyielding and unfounded fear of God. But God was not here. Here there was no love, nor kindness, care or hope. Only fear. He walked back up the aisle, collecting his clothes, feeling both foolish and empowered as he covered his skin. His footsteps resounded a contempt which hung in the air, as though the church itself reciprocated. He pulled down his hood as he stepped out into the torrential rain. God was in the rain. He stood for a few minutes, staring at the moon as it jostled for attention behind large aggressive clouds, before, soaking wet, he turned back through the door into the darkness. His fear now held by weak chains in his mind, he went on to more pressing matters... |
| Completely immersed in his brooding dark thoughts about church and God, John hadn't noticed the car that was now parked at the curb by the church. Indeed, he barely caught the movement of a hulking shape lumbering toward him out of the corner of his eye. He sidestepped and ducked instinctively as arms closed on empty air above his head. He threw a hard right jab into the soft exposed belly of his attacker. The man grunted, but didn't budge. He felt a powerful hand close on his wrist as he tried to pull it back. The brute spun John around by the wrist and closed him in a suffocating bear hug. His struggling was no use, he was stuck in the vice-like grip. All the air was squeezed out of his lungs. He couldn't breath. He began to see stars blooming at the edges of his vision. "So this is it", he thought, "this is what it's like to die". "Enough Peter!" he heard another man shout authoritatively out of the darkness. The giant eased up enough to let John breath again but not enough to give him any leverage. The other man stepped out of the darkness in front of John. He was middle-aged and clad in all black shirt and slacks with the tell-tale white collar of a priest. He looked hard at John. "You know, I have half a mind to call the police and have you arrested for trespassing or burglary ... or both." "I'm no thief" John spat out. "Do you assault all the visitor's to your church like this?" The priest smirked, "you don't look like a thief, I'll give you that. Perhaps you'd like to step inside with us and explain why I shouldn't have you arrested. I'll have my brother Peter here let you down if you agree to cooperate." "Fair enough" was John's reply and he was let down. The hulking Peter kept a strong grip on John's shoulder and led him into the cloister. He sat John down in a pew. The priest slid into the next row of pews and turned to face his prisoner. "Let's get right to the point. I don't think you're a thief or a trespasser, but I did see what you did inside the confessional. You heard that woman's confession. Why?" "I was asleep inside and rather than alarm her, I played the role of confessional so she would go away." "What did she confess?" John wasn't pleased with being attacked and interrogated against his will and so decided to be a bit of a smartass, "That would be a breach of her confidence Father. I couldn't in good conscience tell you such privelaged information." Peter painfully dug meaty fingers into John's shoulder. "Alright, Jesus! Tell your gorilla to ease up a bit." Peter eased his grip at a nod from the priest. "She spouted on about thinking impure thoughts, saying gosh and darn, eating junkfood. That kind of nonsense." John saw no reason to cooperate with these two. Who did they think they were holding him hostage like this? The priest chuckled, amused. "I don't think that's what she confessed mister ..." He looked at John expectantly. "Judas" John replied. "Well, Mr. Judas," he played along, "I think that woman confessed a lot more than you say. You see, she was supposed to have left town by now." He paused to pull a cell phone from his coat pocket. "I'm not going to call the police if you cooperate Mr. Judas. I want you to meet His Grace the Archbishop. We may have some use for you afterall." |
| At first, John was afraid Peter would bundle him into the boot of the shining, black BMW, as he was pulled roughly through the rain. However, no such luck. John groaned inwardly as he was forced into the backseat - wishing for the boot where he could have made some kind of phone call for help. But the police would be no help to him. And as for friends... "Hey! Watch the goddam leather!" whined a ratfaced man from the drivers seat. His eyes seemed too close together; small, dark and twitchy. He was thin, with lanky hair combed over his balding head and a marred crucifix hung casually around his neck, purposefully above his black tie. "To His Grace's mansion, if you please, Derrick," said the Priest, tucking a cane he had been carrying neatly beside him as he took his seat up front. "Our guest, a Mister..." he accentuated the word "Judas... is in need of introduction." "At once, Father Batte," replied the man, gently pulling away from the church and back onto the empty streets of twilight. For a moment, John considered his options. In some ways he was relieved. To be caught up in this trivial drama was potentially a godsend. His problems were being left behind in the mist kicked up by the heavy car's tires. It was not a permanent solution, but it was a solution nonetheless. Certainly better than his dark, unholy thoughts he had entertained in the church. "You may want to strap in, Mister Judas," said Father Batte without looking round. Derrick's eyes watched beadily from the rear mirror. When John didn't move, lost in his own thoughts of freedom, Peter bore down on him. The mans big hands were not as clumsy as his demeanour, and the large man easily chocked John with one hand whilst daintily clipping the seatbelt into place. In the mirror, Derrick's face wrinckled with pleasure. John gagged noisily as his throat was released, all thoughts of his newfound freedom leaving him. This was not an end to his problems. This was just the beginning. |
| The drive to the Archbishop’s house took about an hour. There wasn’t much to see out the windows, it was too dark, beside John wasn’t in this car to look at the scenery. His mind began to race with ways to escape, but nothing came to his mind. He looked at Father Batte several times during the trip, but he took no interest in John, instead he seemed to be nodding off to sleep. Peter was wide awake though, staring intensely at John as if he was reading his thoughts. John shivered and looked away from Peter. “No,” he thought silently, “no one, not even priest can read minds. None of them know about it, about what I did…” Peter was still staring at John, he could feel the mans eyes on him as he began to speak, “Why were you sleeping in the confessional?” John stared out the window at the barren land, “I was sleepy and cold and the confessional was warm.” “That is not what I meant,” Peter’s voice said causing Father Batte to jump. “Peter,” Father Batte said in a slick voice, “there is no need to yell at our guess. Please keep your voice down, some of us are trying to rest before seeing His Grace.” “Yes Father. I am sorry,” Peter said looking away from John for a moment. John, relieved the he wasn’t being stared at closed his eyes. “Mister Judas,” Peter began again in a low voice, “look at me, in the eyes and tell me why you decided to go to a church to sleep? There is a hotel in town and, had you not the money there are several homeless shelters you could have stayed at.” John looked into Peter’s eyes, he knew that it would be best to tell the man the truth, and for this particular question he could. “I don’t know. I just felt I needed to go to the church and when I got there I just happened to fall asleep.” Peter opened his mouth to ask another question but was interrupted, “We have arrived Father. Shall I go inform His Grace of your presents?” Father Batte, fully awake now, shook his head, “No, no. Mister Judas, Peter and I must see him in private. I will call you when I am ready to return to the church.” Peter grabbed a hold of John and pushed him out of the car. John look to see a huge mansion sitting on top of a hill. “I thought you guys were suppose to live a life of poverty.” Father Batte, who was standing right next to John smirked, “Spiritual poverty. We make a vow of spiritual poverty when we become priest. Now come along, His Grace will want to meet you immediately.” |
| The rain had stopped, but now a heavy fog was rolling in. John shivered as the damp cold pressed in. It made the archbishop's house look all the more creepy. They halted at the heavy oak double doors as Father Batte fumbled with some keys. The priest opened the doors and led them into a large foyer - warm, dry and dimly lit. John could hear classical music playing softly from one of the rooms off of the foyer. It was to that room that Father Batte took him. He knocked, "your grace? It's me, Father Batte. Peter and I have brought a guest." "Come in," a man answered from the room beyond. The room was a study with books lining the walls. The air was lightly charged with the spicy smoke of pipe tobacco. A man sat at the far end of the room in a large easy chair. A deep red and black smoking jacket covered his all black garb, a bible rested in his lap. He looked up and smiled pleasantly as they entered. "Ah, good to see you Father Batte. And Peter. Who have you brought to see me at such a late hour? A lost soul needing guidance perhaps? Or a new recruit for the priesthood?" "No your grace. I wish it were. This man has information about Melinda." The pleasant smile vanished instantly from the archbishop's face. Frowning, his voice took on a serious edge. "What information?" He was looking at John intently. John became uneasy under the intensity of the other man's gaze. What the hell was going on? "Look," John started, "this is ridiculous. I had just stopped into your church to get out of the cold and for a little peace and quiet. I nodded off and next thing I know, your subordinates here", he motioned to Peter and Batte, "attacked me, accusing me of all kinds of things and then dragged me here against my will." The archbishop looked over at Batte confused. "What is this man talking about Prichard?" "Your grace, this man ... Judas he calls himself, enjoys impersonating priests in confessionals it would seem. I was returning with Peter from dinner with Edna of the Christian Ladies League when I spied a woman the looked like Melinda running from the confessional. She payed no attention to me, I doubt she even saw me, as she was so distraught. As you can imagine your grace, I was quite startled to see her at all. A moment later, out walks this man from the priest's side of the confessional." He paused briefly to let it sink in with the archbishop. "Your grace, he heard Melinda's confession!" "What?" the archbishop abruptly stood, his bible falling to the floor. "Is that true Mr. Judas?" His grace began turning red. John put up his hands. "Whoa, whoa, whoa! Hang on there a minute your grace," he said it mockingly. Damn, he didn't know why he called him that at all. "I don't know what's going on here, I don't know who you guys are, and I don't know who this broad is your talking about ..." Peter grabbed John by the hair mid-sentence and jerked his head back "...ah!" Goddamnit John hated that big oaf! The archbishop retrieved his bible from the floor and from it he pulled a small photograph he had been using as a bookmark. He stalked over to John and held up the picture for him to see. "This woman? You heard this woman's confession? This is Melinda. You must tell me what she said!" John glanced at the photo. His heart almost stopped when he saw the image. THAT'S Melinda? The picture was a woman that could be no one else but his sister-in-law! The room began to spin. His brother's wife pregnant with the archbishop's child and about to flee town with hush-money. The realization of what he had told her in the confessional hit him like a ton of bricks. He had told her to go to her brother and come clean before she left. She must have been on her way there right this minute, if she hadn't arrived already. Oh God! Surely she would discover the body! She would blame him! Had he done it? He couldn't remember what happened. He had been drinking heavily with his brother Barry and passed out. When he awoke, everything was a blur. All he could see was his brother's lifeless body laying on the floor and he couldn't remember a thing. |
| "Ive never seen her, for God's sake! I have no idea who she is! Let me go, godammit!" struggled John, writhing in Peter's strong grip. The next thing he knew, he was face down in the plush carpet clutching his stomach. "Never take the Lord's name in vain!" Shrieked Peter, his face reddening. The Archbishop turned away in disgust. "Must we be so vulgar? Prichard, please take Peter outside. This, Judas, and I will have a talk," the Archbishop waved away protests with a cordial hand. Alone at last, the two men could finally take the measure of one another. John and his bedraggled mat of hair plastered over his forehead and eyes; the Archbishop's pristine silver hair swept over his noble face. The Archbishop sat slowly into a nearby chair, smoothing his robes as he did so. He absentmindedly flicked through the small bible, waiting for John to recover. John himself felt like he was going to throw up. That Peter could throw a mean punch. The sound of John's rhythmic, struggled breath was all that could be heard in the softly lit room. The Archbishop closed the book with a dull thump. "Well Mr. Judas," he said, "I must apologise for the actions of Father Batte and young Peter. They mean well, but their heavy handedness with matters is often most undesirable." John coughed violently, slowly rising to his feet. He rose high above the short, seated religious man, but somehow the Archbishop still dominated the room. This was his domain and he knew it. "Are they always like that?" struggled John, finally believing he was talking to an intelligent being, not a mindless drone. "Well...they are zealous. I imagine your choice of alias riled Peter somewhat - he doesn't appreciate jokes about Christ. I myself find it rather...amusing." A tight-lipped smile began to creep into his features. "But your name is of no consequence. You really don't have any idea what your dealing with, do you?" "I thought holy men were men of peace." "Ahh peace, a glorious ideal. 'We shall find peace. We shall hear angels. We shall see diamonds sparkling in the sky' once said Anton Chekov. Ah, the world's literature is a beautiful thing, is it not Mr. Judas? Although, I doubt you an accoplished reader," John scowled. So what if he had never read War and Peace? So what if he did not know the ins and outs of Paradise Lost? Did that make him any less of a man? "Why am I hear?" asked John bitterly, neglecting the use of the other man's title. The Archbishop knitted his fingers together and lent forward conspiratorially. "You know things about my past. Things that I would rather have forgotten. Indiscrepancies such as these are hardly befitting as a man for my position," he said, his complexion darkening slightly. John smirked. "Then it seems I am in control, Your Grace " he sniggered, "You give me what I want, or I'll tell the whole world your dirty little secet." The words did not come easily to him. He was frightened, in pain and had the stabbing doubt of the night before slashing into his subconscious. The Archbishop sat back easily. "On contrare, Judas. You are in my home, surrounded by many a rough man. And I can't call them off forever...As we speak, there are men trailing Melinda. And they are not men of the cloth. Think carefully before you speak, for her fate and your own depend on your answer. Tell me, what did you hear?" |
| John hesitated before he spoke, and once again the lies spilled from his mouth like rain running down a roof in a storm. "She was getting ready to leave. She said she wanted to go with a clear conscience; she told me about you." the last word resonated comtempt, echoed it like a cry in some long forgotten cavern. "I told her to do what she felt was right. She left to go home and pack and leave her husband a goodbye note. She'll probably be gone by now." "Did she say where she was going?" Clearly he didn't know about the child. "No, but she knew she was being followed." He would have to warn her of that later. "Did she say anything else?" "Nope" John replied, hoping his casual tone would mask his concern. "Very well. I have no further use for you. Peter!" He stalked in, that calm, malicious intelligence brooding away beneath his behemoth exterior, menacing and deadly. "Show Mr Judas the door, if you would." Before he knew it, John was being hurled out into the mist that still hung over the sodden country road. Dazed and confused he clambered to his feet; ol' goliath had hardly been gentle, but he was relieved they hadn't held him hostage; he was sure they would realise he'd been lying. If not now, it wouldn't be long before they came after him again; he had to get away. He remembered passing a forest on the way here, within walking distance and large enough to hide in, for a while at least. Tomorrow he would look for Melinda. |
| The message had been crackly and distorted, John's voice muffled through waves of static. "Don't...it's...you're...looking....home," he had said before the phone cut out. Melinda reasoned he must be somewhere without signal. Probably off on a drunken ramble with my husband, she thought miserably. She would soon find out. The house of Barry and Melinda Carpenter was surrounded by thick, dark trees, approrachable only by one long winding road back to the city. It was a big house, cold and elizabethan, which masked a sleek modern interior. Situated in the middle of nowhere, Melinda had never liked the house. It was too secluded, too quiet. And Barry never let her entertain guests. But it was a good life. There was never a want for money. Until recently, Barry had worked for an old friend, a business tycoon - a self-made millionaire. He had been a thriving businessman himself, but his connections had propelled his carreer right to the top. As loud and abrasive as he was, Barry was a good husband. He was never social, like his wife, but he was a hardworker and dedicated. This attitude soon led Barry to neglect his religious duties; with his wife's strong faith, conflict was unavoidable. But it was a problem solved easily enough - she simply had to go alone and 'to hell with her if she doesn't like it!' It had been just over a month ago that Barry's company had bust. A credit crunch had brought down the global economy and the company had dominoed into self-destruction. He had lost everything. His tycoon friend lost more, taking his own life from the top of a highrise office block. Thank God for John. He had been there to pick up the pieces of his distraught brother. A helping hand here and there, a few pounds slipped into the back pocket on occassion, a welcome bottle of whiskey and a smile. The door was slightly ajar as she approached it. The air was moist and the warmth of the house looked inviting. Her slightly swelling feet were tired and she wanted nothing more than to lay down in her bed. But she had to be away. Away tonight. It could be no more than a brief kiss goodbye to the man she loved, the man who loved her only less than himself. With a sigh, she quietly eased the door open and went to say her last goodbye... |
| it was starting to snow now. Bloody weather, it could never make up it's mind. Just like Barry, he thought. The rain from before had frozen over in the mist and the snow was just beginning to settle. just what he needed. He was still very wet and he now noticed he was shivering. how long he'd been doing it, he didn't know, but it must have been a good while now. he knew he wouldn't be able to stop when he got to the forest or he would freeze to death. Probably would anyway at this rate but at least if he kept moving he could maybe lose his pursuers. Or himself. He wished so much now that he hadn't stood out in the rain outside the church. His pace quickened in an attempt to warm his numbing feet. A crow cawed defiant inquisition from a power cable overhead as John looked back, expecting to see the headlights and sleek black cars glaring after him, and gave a sigh of relief to the still country lane. After walking for what must have been an hour he moved off the road and trudged across a varren field. it occured to him that he should have done this a lot earlier, but thought also that it didn't make much difference right now; he was still in plain sight of the road. He couldn't have been half way across when he heard the sound of engines and looked back to see those grim black cars hurtling towards him, headlights ablaze and clearly visible against the pristine christmas-card-picture landscape. He knew he'd been spotted, and hurtled towards the trees, now just a few fields away, trench coat flailing out behind him in the chill night air. |
| She packed furiously, dumping the contents of dresser drawers into a fast filling suitcase. Oh God! Oh God! She was sobbing uncontrollably as she packed, picturing the gruesome scene she’d come upon in the dining room. Barry lay face up in a pool of blood, half his face missing. From the gun she saw lying next to his overturned chair and body she presumed. Blood was spattered all over the elegant wallpaper. Oh God, so much blood! As she crept forward into the dining room, shocked and terrified, she saw the word “love” carved into the dining room table with a steak knife. A bottle of scotch lay on its side having spilled its contents over the words and tabletop some time ago. Two tumblers stood on the table as well, awash in blood and scotch. Her body completely numb, Melinda had stumbled up the stairs and into the bedroom. She began packing because she didn’t know what else to do. Who would want Barry dead? John? No! Why? It didn’t make any sense. There was no animosity between the brothers that she knew of. But who else? And the word “love” cryptically carved into the table? Did Barry know about her unfaithfulness and take his own life? John? He had dotted on her from time to time, but she thought he was just being kind, as he was wont to do on occasion. He had a soft spot for all women. She didn't think he was in love with her. The archbishop? No! She pushed that out of her mind as quickly as it had entered. That was ridiculous. She was sure he loved her, but he would never do anything like this! He was a man of the cloth! He had broken his vow of chastity, but he was just a man. He was not a murderer. She should call the police she kept telling herself. Someone had murdered her husband! But they might think she had done it. She certainly had a motive. She knew Barry had taken out a life insurance policy, but she never cared enough about it to even ask how much it was for. She loved him. No she didn’t; she had cheated on him. There were other reasons the police would point out. Ever since his business had collapsed things had changed. He was fast becoming a drunk, and abusive. He was severely depressed. He had isolated her by withdrawing. He barely spoke to her anymore, never touched her … lustfully or otherwise. He just sat and brooded, dwelling on his failure. He had in essence driven her into the arms of another man. None of this would escape the police’s attention. Neither would the envelope of cash the archbishop had given her. She looked too guilty to stay. No, she had to go. She didn’t know what she would do yet, but for now she would run. |
| John ran through the rapeseed fields with unfaltering intensity. They had had him once - they would not have him again. The plants scratched at his ankles as he fled. Their yellow flowers, illuminated by moonlight, reminded him of his daughter. She loved her finger paints. How long has it been? Six months? Eight? Christ, has it been a year already? Tires were screeching behind him and a glance over his shoulder told him that men in dark coats were getting out and beginning across the field after him. What more do they want from me, dammit! The trees were aproaching rapidly, John was a much better runner than he remembered. He had not ran properly for over five years; the pleasures of the flesh far outweighed the discomfort of exercise. With this realisation came the stabbing pain of a stitch and the undeniable urge to slow down. "Stop!...just want to talk!...stop!" His persuers cries were getting closer. It made him angry that the other men - in suits of all things - had made up the ground in such little time. John cursed between coughs. And there he had been thinking smoking was not doing any harm. It felt like his asthema was coming back. He had not had an attack since he was a child. Simpler times. Where has all the time gone? Then, like a whisper of resignation, I'm too old for this. Hands on his knees, feeling the burning of his lungs and the kniving pains in his sides, John turned to hand himself over. He felt like a chapter of his life was coming to an end, a chapter which had lasted for far too long. His had been a hedonistic life. He'd lost his job, his wife and child and now his dignity. He could cling to his innocence like a spider on a thread, but in the end, was it not just a noose around his neck? He needed to grow up. "Ok...ok," he spluttered through phlegm. Joe reached subconsciously for an inhaler or a hncigarette - he was not sure which - but he did know that neither would be there. "Weapon! Weapon!" "Wha..?" |
| John suddenly found himself on the ground with a huge man on top of him. The man put his hand in John’s jacket pocket where he had reached for his cigarette or inhaler, “It’s clear, there is no weapon!” John pushed the man off of him in anger, “If I was … armed … I would have already … used my … weapon.” He said between several heavy breaths. The man rolled off of John and smiled as he stood up. The man was huge, he stood about 6’3” and he was well built. In the dark it was usually hard to tell hair color, but this man John could tell had a very distinct red hair. His green eyes shined in the night like two green stop lights suspended low in the sky. The man bent over and picked John up, “Up ya go. See, no harm done. Right?” John didn’t reply, he was busy taking several deep breaths. “Peter didn’t have a chance to give this back to ya.” He said handing the wallet to John, “Oh and these as well.” He gave John a pack of cigarettes and his inhaler. Peter took the inhaler and took a couple deep breaths. He knew didn’t try to run again, this guy could easily over take him without trying. Besides the man was being friendly, why get on his bad side. “So yer last name really is Judas,” the man said with a smile. “Peter thought ya was lyin’ but guess ya wasn’t. So I am suppose to take you back to Father Batte, he got some more questions to ask ya, and His Grace will be there as well. Come on.” He turned to go back towards the road. John shook his head, “I can’t go back, they’ll kill me.” The man laughed, “They can be intimidatin’ but they ain’t killers. They just want to know why you didn’t say ya knew Berry and Melinda Carpenter. Peter saw a picture of ya with them.” John frowned, “I have to get to my brothers house. I don’t have time to talk to them. I have to-” “I’ll drive ya to yer bother’s house now if ya let me take ya back to His Grace, Father Batte, and Peter when ya is done visitin’.” The man said taking John by the arm and leading him away. “By the way, my name’s Tyler. Come on, let’s go.” |
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