Murder Club - Mark Pearson [86]
He looked up at the simple crucifix hanging on the wall and made a sign of the cross.
‘Oh Lord,’ he said. ‘I know I am a sinner, and I know I am not worthy. But make me strong in your service. Make me strong in my faith. Make of my weak body a weapon to fight evil on your behalf. Make of my weak mind a chalice for the purity of your love. Make my heart strong so that I might bring that strength to the weak who falter on the path of righteousness; succour them, Lord, and guide them to your glory.’
And then the screaming began.
The sound of running feet. Shots firing from automatic rifles. The whop-whop-whop of rotor blades as a helicopter came in to land. Shattering the peace of that humid dawn in the way that only man and natural catastrophes can.
The missionary threw his handkerchief to the floor and staggered outside into the village.
White men in black combat gear with no insignia, and black scarves wrapped round their lower faces, were shouting at the terrified villagers who were scattering before the automatic fire of the invaders which mowed them down.
A scream came from the church to the reverend’s left. It was built of plain varnished wood, just like the reverend’s hut, only some twenty times bigger with a tall cross mounted on the apex of the roof above the entrance doors. Entrance doors that stood open.
The missionary ran towards the steps leading up into the church, glad he wasn’t hampered by his service vestments. He was wearing Chinos with a pale blue shirt and a dog collar. The back of his shirt was dark with sweat as he rushed into the building.
At the far end of the aisle his assistant, a young Zambian woman, stood with three young girls whose eyes were wide with horror, as they looked at the man with the automatic rifle pointed straight at them. Another man, thick-set with iron-grey hair, shifted the upturned altar to reveal a plate cover set into the ground. He opened it and brought out a small, white canvas sack.
‘Stay back, Padre,’ said the man holding the assault weapon.
‘What are you people doing here? This is a simple mission. What harm can we do you?’
‘A simple mission,’ said the one holding the sack, hefting it in his hands. ‘Then perhaps you could explain this.’
‘I’ve no idea what it is.’
‘It’s diamonds, Meneer,’ said the thick-set man. ‘Diamonds to fund your so-called bloody People’s Liberation Army. Diamonds stolen from the mines of South Africa by nigger-loving liberals to send bombs and death to the rightful owners of this land.’
‘I know nothing of this.’
‘White men!’ He took off his bandana and spat on the ground. ‘White men fornicating with kaffirs. Lying down like beasts of the field with the black animals.’
The man had an iron-grey beard and moustache to match his hair. There was fury in his eyes. ‘Well, white men bleed,’ he continued. ‘Just as much as the black monkey. White men feel pain and white men talk when hot coals are held to their skin, and their genitals, and their eyes.’ He smiled like a wolf baring its yellow teeth and weighed the sack of stones in his hand. ‘And white men confess,’ he said.
The missionary stepped in front of the children, making an extra human shield of himself.
‘You have got what you have come for. Leave now. I will see no harm come to these children.’
‘You have prayed to a higher power, Reverend,’ said the grey-haired soldier and raised his pistol. ‘And he has failed to listen to your supplication.’
Then he pulled the trigger, the bullet punching a hole into the reverend’s chest, sending him flying backwards.
*
Bible Steve was staring upwards at the ceiling.
The surgical registrar, Dr Lily Crabbe, was gowned and ready as her anaesthetist brought the gas trolley over to the gurney. ‘We’re going to try and help you now,’ she said.
‘I don’t want help. I want to die,’ he replied.
The registrar didn’t respond. She was all too aware that the homeless man might very well have his wish granted.
The anaesthetist lowered the mask over the bearded