GodBomb! Page 5

  Deborah has decided her days as a pawn are over. She’s been pushed around from place to place, according to the designs of others, for long enough. God is real, and He’s not going to do a damn thing about this horror show. He never does. The only thing they have is His only gift – free will. The bomber has it. So does she.

  She will use it. She will end him.

  The woman moans again, and Deborah allows the moan into her mind, alongside the twitching next to her, the whimpering sniffling she can hear behind her. She absorbs it, building her disgust, her belly churning, becoming hard.

  She feels that cold ball of metal in her stomach, turns it, spinning, and imagines it flowing, liquid, into her legs, creating a metal skeleton for her lower body. She pictures it; she feels it. Her mind is so captivated by the image, by the idea, that she doesn’t notice that her left big toe has, for the first time in seven years, twitched.

  Three rows behind Deborah, seated on the end of the bench, next to the wall, Katie is feeling numb. Faint. She is haunted by the bloody death of the priest. She sees it again and again. The back of his head tilting back. The blood spray. The sound of his body slumping to the floor, like a heavy roll of carpet dropped on hard ground.

  She sees it, eyes open, eyes closed. Over and over. He grunts; he falls. The lunatic falls with him, and she sees his face over the head of the priest. His awful blank eyes.

  He means to kill them all, and she cannot see how this will not come to pass. She tries to pray, to pray for humility or whatever, to pray that she can be brave, to pray that she will go to heaven. To pray that it won’t hurt too much.

  That her parents will forgive her. Their stubborn daughter, determined to shake up their cozy Church of England lives by going to the service that promised a revolution in the church. That they will not blame each other for letting her go. Will not be too sad for too long.

  She looks to her right, at the sweaty bald man who’d been praying so earnestly when the band was playing. A little too earnestly for her taste, like he was trying too hard – hand in the air, eyes tight shut, swaying. He looked so miserable, needy. It’s worse now. He’s sat on the bench, head in his hands, shoulders hunched. Katie can’t tell for sure, but she thinks he may be crying. She thinks about trying to comfort him, put an arm round him, but he still looks sweaty and gross, and besides, she’s too afraid to move.

  Instead, she tries to pray. But her mind will not move away from the murder and the maniac.

  Shock fractures time the same way it fractures thoughts. Reflections become jagged; perception distorted. The seconds take hours now, the hours seconds. So many minds now frantic rats running on wheels that turn nothing, produce nothing but elevated heart rates and sweat and more fear - vicious circles turning in terrified minds. The clock no longer feels like any kind of objective measure – it feels like an abstraction, a lie. The lie we all tell ourselves to preserve a sense of order in the raw chaos of true reality. So it means little to most of the congregation that the clock reads 11:56 when a combination of the pain of the contraction and the accompanying blood pressure dip causes Emma to first cry out, and then collapse.

  “...ny cushions, any...”

  Thud. Thud.

  “...under her head, elevate her...”

  Thud. Thud.

  “...Emma? Emma?”

  Peter. She latches onto his voice, swims toward it, through the roaring blackness.

  “Emma? Squeeze my hand, sweetheart.”

  So tender. He only calls her that when she’s sick. When she’s...

  “Squeeze my hand.”

  She tries, her hand flickers, and she feels his sigh on her face.

  “Good job, sweetheart. Good job. Jesus, we ask you...”

  Fade out again. Each breath feels like wind blowing in and out the mouth of a dark, hot cave. It surrounds her, the booming of her heart like a drum. Gradually, she becomes aware of pink light, a glow. She swims towards it again, trying to surface.

  “...thank you for each other, for the blessing of our union, and Lord we ask...”

  She sways back again, tidal currents pulling her back from the voice, from the light. Suddenly there’s a stabbing pain in her stomach, and she feels a surge of panic, terror, and she surfaces all at once, eyes flying open, hand clamping around her husband’s in a death grip because she is dying, she’s just been stabbed in the stomach, that evil monster has killed her, killed her baby, he’s standing over her with that sword, the feeling is so vivid, so sure, that even after the signal from her eyes is telling her that it’s not so, that the space above her is empty save the concerned face of Peter at her right side, part of her still believes it. Then the pain shifts, turns and subsides, just another contraction, thank you God, thank you.

  She shifts her head slightly, eyes focussing on Peter’s caring, concerned face. His brown eyes behind the half-moon glasses. So handsome, her husband. Such a good man. She feels a surge of love and pride, lifts her hand from his and touches his cheek, softly.

  “I’m okay, darling. I’m okay.”

  “Of course you are.” He smiles then; not just handsome, beautiful, and she follows the path of a lone tear as it escapes the corner of his eye, running down his cheek.

  “Yes. But Peter...”

  Her throat is dry; it clicks as she swallows, tries again.

  “... I think I’m having a baby.”

  She smiles and feels her own eyes tearing up in unison with his, and her laugh comes out as a sob. His jaw trembles, comes back under control, but the tears are flowing freely now, and his return smile looks painful. She feels the love, the comfort he is trying to give her, and she takes from it gratefully, hungrily, her hand dropping from his face, lacing her fingers with his.

  “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay. This is God’s plan for us.”

  He tries to reply, cannot. Nods too fast, shakily.

  She rolls her eyes left and right, as far as she can, trying to get a sense of where she is. She can make out the edge of the stage behind Pete, an empty bench to her right. Her back reports solid floor underneath, but her head is resting on something softer.

  Her eyes return to Peter’s face. His cheeks are wet, but he’s more in control. Good. She needs him strong, needs to lean on him and his strength so that she can be strong too.

  “Can I get you anything? Anything you need?”

  She considers the question carefully, feeling hundreds of potential answers that would open up the well of despair or fury, refusing them all, seeking out the righteous path, the road to salvation.

  “Some water would be good, if there is any. I’m thirsty.”

  Peter looks up at the stage. She can tell by his expression who he’s looking at, and she turns her mind away, thinks only of the child in her belly and the need to breathe slow and deep and even. Just a blood pressure dip, it can happen with the contractions, they’d told her that, perfectly normal, nothing to worry about. Perfectly normal. The words and the breathing exercises she’s practised all this time do their work, and she tries to find calm...

  “Does anyone have any water? This woman is in labour; she needs a drink.”

  The voice is loud and clear, and she shudders, and inside her mind the walls tremble, become thin, and she can see the shape of him through them, the silhouette, blade in one hand, button in the other, and she hears movement from a long way away, but it feels so distant, his shadow grows and grows, blotting out the light, all light, she feels her breathing increase, her heart start to gallop, the edges are closing in, the tide is rising again, pulling her out and away, the shadow claiming all, and then there’s her husband’s arm under her head, gently lifting the bottle to her lips, and she takes a sip of blessedly cool water. It coats her throat with a blue line, swims into her belly, and she comes back to herself, to Peter, his loving face looking down at her.

  “Better?”

  She nods.

  “More?”

  “In a minute.”

  She allows her
heart to slow, luxuriates in the feeling of Peter’s hand on her brow, the soothing gentle stroking. She closes her eyes for a second, smiles.

  “That feels good.”

  She opens them again, sees his answering smile, feels the blessing of his love. She’s going to be okay. They’re going to be okay. If it’s God’s plan that she deliver her child in a church, so be it. It’s even fitting, in a way.

  “Peter?”

  “Yes love?”

  “Save some of the water, will you? Just a bit. I might not remember later.”

  “Why?”

  She smiles, and its warmth lights up her whole face.

  “In case we need to do a baptism.”

  She watches understanding cross his face, sees the fight between love and fear, and is exulted as love wins, and he grins at her.

  “God’s will?”

  “God’s will.” She reaches for his hand, still holding the bottle, and gently squeezes it. “I love you so much, Peter. So much.”

  “I love you too.”

  “Good. Can I have another sip of water, please?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  He lifts her head again, she takes one sip, then a second, and the next contraction hits just as she’s swallowing, and her teeth click together as she clenches her jaw, because this is starting to hurt now, really hurt. She feels all her muscles down there cramping, squeezing, tighter than she would ever have thought possible. Her windpipe burns with misdirected water, and she half coughs, half gags. She tries to hold her breath to stop from coughing more, but the cramps make it impossible, and she coughs again, each cough sending an answering stab to her stomach, and the pain and the cramp and the rawness of her throat combine in a horrible surge, and she turns her head sideways and retches, feeling the blood force into her face and her eyes bulge as the water comes back up, splashing on the floor. She tears another breath in, convinced she’s going to do it again, but the cramp in her stomach begins to relax again. She manages to switch to her nose, panting like a dog, willing her stomach back under control, her throat to stop burning, and little by little, inch by inch, they do.

  Both her hands are clamped around Peter’s now, and it’s an effort to get her fingers to relax, but she does it and looks back up at him. She sees love and concern, but little fear. Good deal. This is going to be hard, she thinks, very hard indeed, but she knows that her husband has steel in his heart as well as love. She wills that steel to manifest now, to meld with his faith and his love for her, because she’s going to need every ounce of his calm strength to keep the world at bay, and let her focus on what she needs to do, on bringing this child into the world.

  Because the child is coming, and she’s pretty sure her baby is going to arrive in this building, not the hospital bed they’d planned for. If that’s your will Lord, let it be done, but let my man stay strong, Lord, and let me do what I need to do.

  “Peter.”

  Her voice is harsh, ragged from the vomiting, but clear.

  “Yes, love.”

  “I’m going to need your help. I need to take my pants off.”

  He swallows, blinks hard once. Nods.

  “Can you stand?”

  She considers the question carefully. Could she stand? She’s pretty sure she could if there were a... if she had to, but after careful consideration, she decides she’d rather not, actually. For one thing, if she has another contraction while she’s on her feet, she might pass out and fall again, which would be bad for the baby. For another, she thinks the less she moves right now, the better. She will have this baby in this church, on this floor, if she has to. If it is God’s will. However, if it’s her choice, she’d just as soon do it in a hospital bed, and her best chance for that is to do as little as possible to help this process along. So...

  “I don’t think so, no. I’m worried I might pass out. Can you...?”

  “Of course.”

  He moves, and his hands slide up under her skirt, tracing the shape of her thighs until they reach her hips. He has a nasty tendency to tickle her inadvertently sometimes, when he’s touching these areas, but either his technique or the circumstances prevent this from happening, blessedly. He slides his thumbs under the elastic, looking at her questioningly, and she nods and lifts her hips, and he smoothly slides her pants down.

  The moment triggers a memory that is almost impossibly vivid. She sees them inside the doorway of their honeymoon suite, returning from a very fine evening meal, falling into each other’s arms, young and drunk and glowing with love and lust, a sudden embrace, open-mouthed kissing, bodies so hungry for each other reaching and grasping, pulling at clothes, and his hands had slid up her skirt just like that, hooked and pulled off the elastic as she’d unbuckled his belt, tugged open his zipper, reached into his pants and pulled him out, towards, and into her, he just stepping into her welcoming body, pulling him close and in and up, and ah, the joy, the pleasure, the rightness, the love.

  The moment, the vision, has come and gone before her pants leave her ankles, and she is left with the glow of the memory, the feeling of certainty that she has a part and a place in the world, and that feeling of marvel and surprise that has never left her, that she has found him, her match, her other half. That God had provided this wonderful man for her to love.

  “Peter? Can you come here, please?”

  He kneels at her side, brings his face over hers, and she threads her hand through his hair and brings his lips to hers. The kiss is warm and full, loving but not sexual. As they break, he looks back at her, clearly delighted, smiling.

  “I love you. No matter what. We’re going to be okay. No matter what. Do you understand?”

  He nods.

  “Good. Now...”

  And that’s when the blade strikes the ground next to her.

  She sees the sharpness of it, up close, even through the blackening blood that coats it, congealing like some awful wound that cannot heal. As though the sword itself were bleeding.

  Hunched behind it, she sees the black jeans of the killer, his scuffed boots. Her eyes are drawn upwards, across that belt of wires and pale blocks. It seems to her that it radiates malevolence, that she can feel an awful destructive force just begging to be released, to explode and burn and rip apart everything, and her eyes go up to the clean shaven chin, the scraggly dark hair, the thin lips, pale pink against an even paler skin, that odd, hooked nose, those piercing blue eyes under that heavy brow, she sees him, and she feels the love and memory of love draining away, being drawn within, flooded out by fear, panic, despair, and she does not want to face this man, does not want to hear his voice, but she has no choice, because here he is, and he clearly means to speak.

  Dear Lord, protect me now. Dear God protect my child. My God, please...

  A tongue darts out and licks both lips.

  “I’m so sorry about this. Is there anything we can do to make you more comfortable?”

  She makes herself breathe slow and deep.

  “You could let my husband and I go, that would certainly make me feel more comfortable.”

  She hates the slight tremble she hears in her voice, the vulnerability robbing her words of their calm, subverting her intention.

  His face twitches, in either humour or discomfort.

  “I can’t. Really.”

  “Yes, yes you bloody can!”

  She’s surprised by her anger, delighted by how it overrides the fear.

  This time the wince is unmistakable.

  “I understand how you feel, but...”

  The laughter rips out of her throat, harsh and angry, shocking both of them, she thinks.

  “Excuse me! You... you understand how I feel? Given birth a lot, have you? While having your life, and the life of your husband and child threatened? While...”

  His face crumbles, and it’s like a mask settles in its place as he begins to stand back up. She grabs his flapping jacket and pulls him back down. Shocked, overwhelmed by the surge of anger she now feels, strong
er and hotter than she can ever remember experiencing. From a distance she hears gasps and at least one yell of fear, and somewhere deep in her mind a calm voice is asking if she’s trying to get herself and everyone else killed, but she’s too flipping angry to hear that voice, to acknowledge it, so she yanks on the fist-full of shiny black fabric, delighting in the look of surprise on his face, exulting at his stagger as he wobbles, almost falls, on his way back to the squat.

  Lord, why does it feel so good to scare this man?

  “...I’m not finished! You don’t have the first idea, the tiniest inkling of what we are going through right now. If you did, you’d do the honourable thing and let us all go now.”

  His face is working again, and she sees emotions rippling, churning.

  “I...”

  “God’s going to crush you like an insect, you know that? Like a woodlouse. Now or later, as to His will. He is Almighty. You? You’re just a vile child with a magnifying glass, burning for the fun of it. Well, we are real people, as real as you, we feel pain, and if you go through with this, you will burn for eternity. For my child, if nothing else, you will burn!”

  As soon as she mentions God she sees his face change, first becoming still, then hardening, knows she’s not reaching him, is driving him further away, but does she not care, cannot stop.

  “You’re a believer?”

  The calmness, the coldness with which he asks, cuts through her rage, shortens her breath. She feels her mind return to the bloody blade, so close to her body. The face of a killer that she can no longer read. The certainty drains away with the fury, and behind it the panic scrabbles and scratches at her mind.

  “I...”

  She falters, wondering if the truth will damn her, will kill her and hers. But she’s come too far, said too much already. Okay Lord. If it’s your will, it’s your will. Forever in your arms, Lord.

  Please help me to be unafraid.

  “..Yes, I am.”

  He leans forwards, his eyes now like chips of ice, flat but sparkling with some kind of intelligence. She does not want to look. She does not dare to look away.