The 13 Apostles

Let there be no doubt, I am a cold-blooded killer. My confession may surprise you. For I am a Catholic Priest, a Man of God – someone you may believe to be a messenger of peace. But it is my unwavering duty to kill. For my God demanded it. He came before me once, as an apparition in my dreams, and said it would be. I was here to rid the world of those who stained it with their sinful filth. As Exodus 21:24 foretold, eye for an eye and tooth for a tooth. I was to be the Lord’s angel of vengeance.

The following morning a wayward young man from my flock handed me a gun; fearful it would eventually lead him into trouble. With it he passed 13 bullets. It was a sign from my Lord and I would not fail him.

1st Apostle: Peter was a local fisherman, a hard drinking man with a fearsome temper. During confession he told me of a violent argument with another man. They had come to blows and beside himself with the devil’s rage Peter had bitten off the other mans ear. I told him he would answer to God. Two nights later I shot him dead.

2nd Apostle: James had recently returned from a boys’ holiday in Spain. There he had committed sinful acts of the flesh with many different girls, whilst his wife had remained at home caring for their newborn son. He came seeking absolution and God’s forgiveness. Instead, I took him into the vestry, placed the gun against his head and pulled the trigger.

3rd Apostle: A week later John, the brother of James, came to see me. James was missing and John was afraid that his brother may have discovered that John was really the father of his son. I said I would pray for them both and then shot him through the heart.

4th Apostle: Whilst in the village one afternoon I bumped into Andrew, the brother of Peter. I asked why he had not attended the recent funeral of his brother. Andrew explained he had always hated Peter and was glad his bullying older brother was dead. That night I visited him at home and he was dead by the time I left.

5th Apostle: Detective Phillips visits me asking if I have seen Jimmy Bartholomew, the young man who had handed me the gun. He explains that the police wish to talk to Jimmy about the murders of Peter and Andrew, that the bullets came from a gun like Jimmy was once seen waving around in public. I panic and shoot the detective dead on the spot.

6th Apostle: I track down Jimmy Bartholomew to a local doss house. I can’t risk him being found and telling the police he had given me the gun. He’s surprised to see me, but not as surprised as when I pull out his gun, stick it in his mouth and pull the trigger.

7th Apostle: I decide to stop the killings for a while. But then a particular officious man called Mr Matthews visits from the local tax office. He is investigating some tax evasion issues around loans taken out for the church roof. I offer to show him the church accounts, and shoot him in the back of the head as he sits stooped over my fraudulent accounts.

8th Apostle: A second detective visits me. There’s no doubt they’re on to me. Detective Thomas says that his colleague Phillips and a Tax Officer who had both come to see me in recent weeks were now both missing. I say I saw them both, answered their questions and they then both left. He asks to see the church catacombs. I take him down and shoot him in the back.

9th Apostle: As I am coming back out of the catacombs Nancy James, the church organist, is stood by the altar. She says she was passing and heard a gunshot, so came to investigate. She’s a damn nosy woman at the best of times. I tell her there is nothing to worry about and then blow her face off.

10th Apostle: I am dragging Nancy’s body towards the catacombs when my sister Jude suddenly appears, with my 5 year old niece Caroline. Jude stares in disbelief at the bloody faceless body I am dragging across the altar. She begins to scream, so I have no option but to shoot her dead. I tell Caroline she saw nothing and if she told anyone she would burn in hell forever. With that I flee the church.

11th Apostle: A few days later as I board a train for Europe I notice a fellow passenger eyeing me suspiciously. I ask his name, to which he answers Simon. “Simon,” I say. “May I read your newspaper?” Reluctantly he passes it over. There on the front page was my photo beneath the headline “Wanted! The Killer Priest!” No wonder Simon was staring. There’s only one thing for it. I shoot him dead and flee the train.

12th Apostle: That night I break into my brother-in-laws house. I find my niece Caroline in bed. “You’re a Judas Caroline! You told the police didn’t you?” As she starts to cry I press pillow against her pretty face, place my gun against it and pull the trigger.

The house is surrounded now. There’s police marksman with guns aimed at the windows. All that is left is for me to write this note, to explain how it came to this. I hope it goes someway to explaining why I have done what I have done.

As for that final bullet, it’s obvious – isn’t it? I am the thirteenth apostle. My duty is done now.

And I will answer only to my God.

——–

Winning entry in the Crime Time 13 Bullets Competition.

The Fathers Sack Race

“Wow, Dad,” gushed William, my ten year old son. “That was an amazing race. You panned the pants off all the other dads!”

“Well, son, with you and your mother here cheering me on, how could I not win the Fathers Sack Race?”

I turn and look at Fiona who smiles at me coyly, her blue eyes sparkling in the afternoon sun. I have to say she looks great these days. She’s obviously been going to the gym and the blue summer dress she’s wearing really compliments her long legs.

I always said she had great legs.

I was surprised as anyone when she invited me along to William’s school’s sports day. We’d separated a year ago and although the divorce hadn’t yet been finalised, we’d hardly spoken since.

I was devastated when she kicked me out. It was my own fault , I know. She’d been away on business and I’d stupidly ended up in bed with her sister – who had popped round to make sure I was coping with William on my own.

One drunken mistake later and that was the end of my marriage.

I coped by throwing myself into my painting and decorating business. But now I was hoping this invite was a chance for us to start talking again and perhaps make a fresh start.

“So you been seeing anyone?” she asks.

“Of course not Fiona. I just want us all back together again,” I reply, smiling warmly. “I still love you.”

She blushes and is unable to keep a smile from her face.

“Great race, Mr Andrews!” says a girls voice suddenly. “I knew you’d win!”

I look down and see a girl from William’s class smiling up at me.

“Thanks Sally,” I say, shrugging at Fiona.

Fiona looks at me curiously. “How do you know Sally?”

“He’s been doing some painting work round our house,” replies Sally before I can say anything.

“How’d you know my Dad would win the sack race?” sneers William.

“Because,” Sally says. “I heard my mummy tell her friend that he was great in the sack!”

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Winning ‘Amazing Race’ story at Red Bubble’s Twisted Tales, November 2008

Tennis Courting

I found the old tennis racket when I was clearing out some of my mother’s things. Not that she was dead, mind. No I had simply arranged for her to move into an old folks home where she could be cared for properly. Since my father had died a few years back, she had taken to wandering aimlessly around town in a nightgown and having the occasional fall.

No an old folks home was for the best.

But that old tennis racket brought it all back; memories I had largely forgotten for almost thirty years.

I was about 10 at the time. It was a warm summers evening and I should have been down at the Scout hut. But with my father away on business and my mother at her Wednesday evenings at the tennis club, I decided to take full advantage and go home and look through some naughty magazines I’d found.

As I let myself in I noticed my mother’s tennis racket was still by the coat stand in the hallway. It wasn’t like her to forget things, especially not for tennis. Then, suddenly, from upstairs came the sound of muffled giggles.

Cautiously I crept up the stairs, the giggling and strange groans becoming louder as I did. Peeking in through a crack in my parent’s bedroom door I saw my mother and Mr Rowntree, a man from her tennis club, rolling around naked upon the bed.

I fled the house in silence and sat out in the park until it was time to go home. When I got there Mr Rowntree was long gone and my mother was soaking in the bath, exhausted from an evening of energetic tennis.

I never told anyone though. How could I? I just blocked it out as if it never happened.

I look back at the old tennis racket in my hands. “Mum, shall I throw this old racket in the skip?”

“Oh no, I’ll be needing that,” she replies, a sudden glint in her eye. “Old Mr Rowntree says there’s a small but active tennis community at the home.”

———————–

published at Red Bubble’s Twisted Tales. A 350 word challenge using ‘racket’ as a prompt.

Einfühlung

Sitting naked on the ledge of the bell tower I watch as day breaks upon the small Austrian town below. Sunlight passes through my glassy skin, but I do not sense it, for I am not here, not in the way you would understand. I do not feel in a physical sense; not cold, not pain, not heat. But yet I feel the sadness and suffering of others, in the same way you feel the sun’s warmth upon your flesh.

Empathy, you might call it. It comes from the German word Einfühlung – to understand the intimate feelings of another.

Still, enough of this self-reflection, I am here for a reason and the deadline is near.

I glide down to the roof of Gasthof zum Pummer, a small backstreet inn.

Passing through slate and timber I find myself in a small room. Alois is pacing nervously. In the bed his wife Klara screams. Suddenly a baby cries and the midwife smiles. “There, it is done; you have a beautiful baby boy, Klara.”

I watch as she cuts the umbilical cord and holds up the newborn child. The wonder of human creation never fails to move me; the absolute joy that comes from such suffering.

Alois steps closer and shakes his head. “He is another pathetic wretch. He will die just like all the others. Why can’t you give me a healthy son, Klara? Why am I damned so?”

It is true, the child is the fourth one born to Alois and Klara and none have survived. It’s why I am here. As an angel I have the power to give life. But I work to tight deadlines and not every person should be saved. Sometimes it’s better if some die. It’s a judgement call.

I look at Klara’s pitiful face and the Einfühlung floods through me.

I lean over the child and breathe life upon him.

“No he will live,” says Klara smiling weakly. “This one is different, strong. We shall call him Adolph.”

The Jewish midwife smiles. “A good strong name, Frau Hitler.”

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previously published on Red Bubble

A Short History of Writer Anti-Social Behaviour

Monday 7 November 2005

Deadline looming. Can’t shake this writers block. Need to get the finished manuscript off to publishers by Saturday or they will cancel the publishing deal.

Critics panned the previous book and sales were poor.

Starting to wilt under the pressure.

Haven’t spoken to the Wendy or the kids for days. Been locked away in my study with the door firmly shut. Surviving on a bottle of gin, fig rolls and 80 cigarettes a day. The waste paper basket is doubling up as my toilet and pages of bad writing as loo roll – quite appropriate really!

Desperate times, desperate measures.

Now, if only my muse would come visit.

Tuesday 8 November 2005

Travailed through the night but wrote nothing of substance.

Kids playing up this morning, barked at them to keep the damn noise down or I’d skin them alive. Wendy came in to criticise my tone. She took one look at the state of me, caught a whiff of the soiled waste paper basket and packed her and the kids off to her Mums.

Peace at last!

If only I could think of plot for this novel!

Wednesday 9 November 2005

No sleep for 48 hours now.

Fig rolls all eaten.

Suddenly from my very depths I discover inspiration and throw myself into the moment. But the doorbell rings and the muse flees again!

I’m beside myself with rage. Disgustedly throw open the door to find the postman with a registered delivery.

The publishers no doubt chasing me up!

Incensed I drag him inside and strangle him to death right there in the hallway.

Back into the flow again this afternoon when the window cleaner suddenly appears at my study window.

It’s as if the world is in cahoots to stop me writing.

I throw open the window and push him from the ladder. Neck broken, he finally dies an hour later.

Thursday 10 November 2005

Back in the moment and halfway through the manuscript now. At a push I might still get it off in time.

Gin’s finished. Drinking bottles of neat mouthwash instead.

Suddenly a scream startles me. Damn! Forgot the cleaner was due in this morning. I find her staring at the corpse of the postman. I grab an umbrella from the coat stand and impale her upon the spiked end. It’s a slow agonising death that does little for my mood or the wallpaper.

Friday 11 November 2005

Just got started again after yesterday’s disturbances when Wendy comes home unexpectedly.

She finds the bodies and calls the police. After a struggle I’m arrested and taken away.

There goes my book deal.

Monday 30 October 2006.

Nice peaceful prison cell all to myself for the next twenty-five years.

Am halfway through my prison memoirs for the new publishers now.

All was going so well until the screws introduced a new cellmate: a fidgety, nosy fellow who snores most loudly.

I suspect he will meet an unsavoury end in the showers.

——–

previously published at Red Bubble December 2007