A Bullet For God

by Eben Le Roux

  Chapter 11

  They were driving in silence, each one with their own thoughts. Peter’s mind was on the picture he saw on the Atkinson family’s living room wall. Those twins were two beautiful girls. What were most present in his memory, were their eyes. They were filled with laughter and joy, and the two faces were one hundred per cent identical. In the short time he had laid eyes on the picture, he could not detect any difference between the two. He knew that he would not find twins as identical as that in a lifetime. Peter was slowly starting to realise what the problem was with Michael. That anger must be fuelled from the thoughts of losing his daughters. His mindset must be skewed into thinking that this world was cruel and what God did to him was far too brutal. His mind went to Kathy’s words when she said that he was the one who could help him. Throwing his words back at him was not fair of her. As much as he tried to figure out what role he could play in helping Michael Atkinson, he could not think of anything. Kathy had to accept that the cure for her husband’s illness was far outside his capabilities.

  ‘I hear everybody calling you the Teacher. So what have you been doing?’

  ‘Huh?’ Peter was wrenched out of his thoughts by Sean’s voice. ‘What was that?’ he asked again, not sure why he did so.

  Sean looked at him, smiling, and aware of his surprise. ‘I mean, what work were you doing before you left your family?’ Sean was somewhat doubtful if he should have asked this question. He started to feel uncomfortable after he did.

  ‘Oh! I was a teacher. In fact, I was the school principal,’ Peter said very casually.

  ‘A school principal…! You were a school principal?’ The amazement was so immense that Sean nearly took the car off the road. It took him a lengthy three seconds to recover from the surprising answer he got. ‘You mean to say you were a principal at school, and you gave it up for a life on the streets? That does not make sense . . . that just does not make . . .’

  ‘Stop the car,’ Peter said. He could see that Sean’s enthusiasm was replacing his concentration on the road. ‘There should be a tree about a hundred metres from here. Stop there and I’ll tell you everything.’

  Sean slowed the car down, stopped right next to the tree, and switched the engine off. Anxious to know what could make such a wise man choose a life of a hobo above his own house and family, he could not get out of the car fast enough. Once outside, he could feel the difference in the air. It was so much easier to breathe. The plants were much greener, and for the first time in months, he saw a natural stream with clean water. His eyes were fixed on a very low-flying bird. He followed it until it went to sit on a branch next to its nest. It was then he noticed something else under the tree; a car with a man hitting the dashboard inside. Through the window, he could see the man was talking to himself. Peter, who had been calling him twice with no response, walked around the car. He could see that something had attracted Sean’s attention and, without asking or saying anything, followed the direction of his gaze. He was just as shocked as Sean was at the scene at the bottom of the embankment.

  Inside the car, the man was taking out a notebook. The next moment, he opened the cabby and brought out a gun. He placed the gun on the passenger seat and again started to hit the dashboard.

  ‘That man is sure acting weirdly,’ Sean said softly as they moved their bodies in behind some bushes.

  ‘Yes, there is definitely something wrong with him.’ Peter said it so slowly that it triggered a nerve in Sean.

  ‘Let’s get the hell out of here and call the cops. I think he might have committed a murder or robbery and is hiding out here,’ Sean said, pulling Peter by the arm towards their car.

  ‘Wait,’ Peter said, shaking him off.

  ‘What do you mean, wait? Wait until he sees us and starts shooting?’

  Peter was silently making a summary of the man and the situation in the car. Guessing the man to be in his early sixties, he questioned what could be causing his bizarre actions. Reflections from the window made it difficult to get a clear look into the car. Trying to elude some of the glare, he moved to the other side of the bush. He got there just in time to see the man taking out a pen from his pocket. Leaning over to the passenger side, the man brought up the notebook and started writing.

  ‘We have to get down there very fast.’ Peter said to Sean.

  ‘You don’t think for one second that I am going to sneak up on a man with a gun that is acting like a nutcase. No thank you sir, I am leaving right this minute, and you are coming with me.’ Again, he pulled Peter towards the car.

  ‘That man is no robber, Sean. He is planning suicide.’

  ‘What?’ Sean was now turning back, watching the car again, and this time, he had sweat on his face. ‘Are you telling me we are going to watch that man shoot himself?’

  ‘No, we are going to talk him out of it,’ Peter said it with so much confidence that Sean’s body froze upon hearing his words.

  ‘Mr Johnson, I am no hero, and I am not planning to be a dead one on top of that. I think we should just shout at him, or maybe we could blow the horn to make him aware that he is being watched. That way, we could scare the hell out of him.’

  Peter could see that Sean was frightened, but he knew that whatever needed to be done had to be done in a hurry. He peeped around the bush, narrowing his eyes in the hope of getting a better picture. He then looked at the area in which he and Sean were standing. Their car could not be seen as it was parked on the opposite side of the road, and the other car was at the bottom of the embankment. He knew it was impossible for the man to see their car.

  ‘All right, Sean. I am going down there. You stay in hiding, do not shout, and do not blow the horn. You might just rush him into getting it done. He might think we could stop him.’

  Sean’s eyes grew big, and his mouth started to open. This man was either mad, or he was too dumb to be scared. ‘Mr Johnson please, this type of situation is not for us. I think we should call in some experts to deal with this.” Sean was close to becoming hysterical.

  ‘I would have done that if we had the time Sean. We are twenty minutes drive from town. No, I am not leaving this to chance. I am going down there!’

  Sean’s body was already shaking and he knew that nothing was going to stop Peter from whatever he wanted to do.

  You think I should call the cops . . . just in case?’

  ‘No, they will come here with screaming sirens, and that might just be the thing that could make it end in tragedy. Leave it to me, and trust me. I think I know what I’m doing.’

  ‘You think you know sir . . . You are not sure?’ There was real fear in Sean’s voice.

  ‘Yeah, I think I know.’

  ‘What if he shoots at you?’

  ‘Then you get into the car, and get the hell out of here.’

  Before Sean could say another word, Peter hurried down the embankment. Sneaking from behind the thickest bushes, he approached from behind the car. He planned to move in on the passenger side, out of sight of the rear-view mirrors. In some places, he crawled like a cat, knowing he could not make noise and did not have much time. As he bent down, he heard something fall into the little pool of water in front of him. He looked down and saw his pen that has fallen from his shirt pocket.

  ‘Hallelujah,’ he said softly with a smile. A constructive plan started to form in his mind but knew he had to do it very quickly. Ripping the refill out of the pen, he squeezed the red ink onto his left hand. He then wet his right hand in the puddle of water very carefully so as not to pick up any of the dirt. Carelessly he smeared the red ink and water mix all over the left side of his shoulder and chest of his white shirt. Creeping up on that man was going to take up too much time. Going out in the open as an injured person, could be more effective and much quicker. The man in the car saw the movement immediately as Peter came out of the bushes. There was sudden alert in him. He was not sure what he should do as he noticed that the man could hardly walk. When he saw blood on the shirt, his mind b
ecame terrified for a moment. As his eyes were fixed on the person in front of him, his mind searched through a thousand options per second about what to do next. He looked down at the gun on the passenger seat and then back at Peter. Instinct took over. He quickly hid the gun and the note in the cubby of the car. Peter was stumbling towards the car; his actions were those of a man who could fall over at any moment. His eyes were fixed on the man’s actions inside the car as he wanted to be sure where the gun was. The first priority was to get the gun and the car keys away from him. When he saw him leaning over to the passenger side, he knew at least where to look for it. Then he saw the man leaving the car, coming towards him with huge concern on his face. Peter knew he could not get too close, for he wanted the man far enough away from the car. He went down on one knee as if falling. Cunningly, he positioned himself in the posture of an athlete ready to take off. He went down more, skilfully resting his hands on the ground. The man was now rushing towards him. As he was about three metres away from him, Peter rapidly leapt up and forward. The man got the fright of his life as he dashed out of the way.

  Reaching the Honda, Peter quickly opened the door to go for the cubby, but then he saw the key still dangling from the ignition. He pulled out the key, closed the door, and pressed the remote. It was a relief when he saw the doors lock. He looked at the man who was ready to run away as fear took the place of his concern. Peter felt sorry for him and he spoke instantly, but with passion.

  ‘I am no robber, no killer, and no thief. I am here to help you.’

  Peter knew he spoke calmly enough, and he raised his arms above his shoulders. He saw the man walking backwards, and that scared him. He needed to stop him from committing suicide, and losing him now was not part of the plan. This man would find other ways of killing himself.

  Peter spoke again, ‘I see fear in your eyes. What is it that you fear? For a man who was supposed to be dead by now by his own hands, you should be happy if someone comes along to do the job for you.’

  ‘What . . How. . Who are you?’ The man tried to speak through his fear and Peter desperately wanted his trust. Instead of answering him, he insisted that the man give his name first. ‘Listen to me, mister. I need to know your name before I can start talking to you.’

  ‘I . . . I . . . Andrew, my name is Andrew Cohen. Now, can you please let me go? I did nothing to you, please let me go!’

  ‘Now look here, Andrew, on this shirt, this is not blood, it is only red ink. That is how desperate I am to help you. Seeing that you would rather save my life instead of talking yours, I take it that there is plenty of good in you.’ Peter was not taking his eyes off him. ‘I am asking you to calm down because I am going to open your car.’

  Peter went quiet for a moment and stared at him. ‘Did you hear me, Andrew? I am going to open your car. I have a friend up the road and I will press the horn to get his attention. I also know you have a gun in this car. I will have to take it away so that we can be sure you would not harm yourself or us. I want to help you, but please . . . I need you to help me by staying calm, and trust me to do whatever I need to do.’

  He saw the man nodding, with the fear still in his eyes. ‘You know, Andrew, right now you should fear yourself more than anybody else. You are the one intending harm upon yourself more than anyone in this whole world.’

  Upon hearing this, Andrew suddenly said something that grabbed Peter’s immediate attention ‘They are going to hate me forever . . .’

  ‘What? Who is going to hate you forever?’ Peter instantly knew that there was another side to this suicide attempt. ‘Are you part of some syndicate?’

  ‘No, no. I am not. I lost . . . We lost everything we worked for.’

  For Peter, this man was making no sense. He thought it would be better to have Sean joining him as soon as possible. ‘Listen, Andrew, I need to know what you are talking about. First, I want to get my colleague down here. We are now in a situation where you do not trust me and, from what it looks like, I am not sure if I could trust you. I am going to blow the horn now, okay?’

  ‘Your colleague, are you cops?’

  ‘No, I am a teacher . . . sort of a speaker . . . Well; people think of me as a priest . . . It is hard to explain . . .’

  All of a sudden, the man’s face lightened up.

  ‘I know you . . . My Lord, you are the man on TV . . . you are that hobo . . . sorry . . . you are...good heavens, is that really you . . . ?’ Andrew’s fear was forgotten for a while.

  Peter could not wait any longer. He had to get Sean down there, as he might need him. He pressed the remote and cautiously opened the door of the car. Watching Andrew closely, he pressed the button of the horn with two long sounds. They both looked up at the road as it took Sean a good few seconds to show himself.

  ‘Come down here,’ Peter shouted at him, but Sean just stood still, trapped in his fear.

  ‘Sean, come down here. It is safe. Hurry up, damn it. We don’t have all afternoon.’

  Hesitating for another moment, Sean slowly took on the steep embankment through the bushes, not much impressed by this mission.

  That morning, at ten minutes past nine, Shannon’s phone started to ring. She had arrived late at work, and it annoyed her somewhat for having a call so soon. She knew immediately that there must be a visitor for her when she saw reception on the screen of her phone. Bruce Ashton was not coming back, and with that hobo’s intellect, she knew her trouble had started. This added to her distress as she picked up the phone.

  ‘Yes, Mildred,’ she said politely, hiding her annoyance.

  ‘Morning, Miss Buoys. I have a visitor for you.’ She hesitated for a moment before carrying on.

  ‘He does not have an appointment, but he is insisting on seeing you . . . saying he has something very important to show you.’

  Shannon was surprised but also curious about what could be so important and who it was. ‘Who is this man?’

  There was silence on the line, and then she could hear Mildred asking the man his name. The next moment, she heard a male voice on her phone. ‘Miss Buoys, you do not know me, but I have something that could make headlines in tomorrow’s papers, but only if you are interested. Do you have five minutes for me? I promise it won’t take longer than that.’

  ‘Your name, please,’ Shannon said, sounding insistent and not like a person who was over eager to know.

  ‘You can call me Sam. I have some pictures of the priest with me, your hobo priest-’

  “What company are you from Sam?”

  “No company Ma’am. I am here in my capacity.”

  ‘Well, Sam, let me speak to Mildred, the receptionist.’

  When she heard Mildred’s voice, she instructed her to have security escort the man to her office. Three minutes later, they arrived at her door.

  ‘You must be Sam.’

  ‘Yes ma’am.’

  She looked at him trying hard not to show her dislike in his dress code. He was wearing sky blue trousers, a floral shirt, and a brown jacket.

  ‘Please have a seat,’ she said, showing him to a chair in front of her desk, and nodded to the security officer that it was fine for him to leave. Once the door closed, she immediately went into action and, as shrewd as she could be, showed no eagerness or interest.

  ‘Well, Sam, you say you have something about our new priest in town. What is it?’

  ‘I have pictures.’

  There were traces of disappointment in her voice and in her actions. She stood instantly as though expecting him to do the same.

  ‘Well, my friend Sam, by now everybody in this country has a picture of our beloved priest, and I bet some might even have posters hanging on their walls. If you think I am going to broadcast his face on my show . . .’

  This time, he was the one to interrupt her. ‘You don’t understand. I saw him fighting on the street . . . two days ago. He and two other men were involved in a fight at the corner of Lincoln and Sixth Avenue.’

  He could see some su
rprise mixed with a little interest reflecting in her eyes.

  ‘You must be joking,’ she said. ‘That man, in a street fight? Get out of here, Sammy. You’re wasting my time.’

  ‘Like I said, I was there, and I took pictures.’

  ‘You mean, fighting, like fighting for real?’ She was so startled that she was now seated again, straight up in her chair.

  ‘So real, Miss Buoys, there was blood. That’s how real it was.’

  ‘Where are these pictures you are talking about?’

  ‘Right here . . .’ His hand went for the inside pocket of his jacket, but he stopped to say, ‘You know of course that I would be selling them to you . . . should you be interested.’

  ‘Of course, and like you said, only if I am interested.’

  ‘I will be asking for five thousand,’ he added without moving his hand any further.

  ‘Sam, I am a professional in my work. I do not negotiate price on something I have not seen, so come on and show me the pictures.’ She knew she had to keep the upper hand with this man. She had dealt with many people like this. There was no chance that she would allow him to take charge over her. First, she had to get him to understand that she was in control. He handed her four photos and, with his eyes fixed on her face, said, ‘Tell me if this is not a trump card for you.’

  This made her angry, and she was surprised to hear words like this from a man who did not even know her.

  She did not hide her anger when she answered him, ‘Listen here, Sammy. I don’t know you from Adam, and I . . .’ she stopped suddenly as she looked at the second picture. There was blood around the man’s nose and around the lips. Peter’s face was in full view in the picture, his one hand clutching the man’s shirt while it showed Ray’s fist coming in for a blow to the nose. The third picture showed Bruce and another man fighting over a baseball bat. Only part of Bruce’s body was visible, and Shannon could not identify his person. The last photo showed Ray clearly hitting a man on the nose with Peter’s face full in the background.

  ‘Tell me, Sam, who told you to bring these pictures to me and why?’

  She was much calmer now as three of the pictures definitely portrayed Peter and his son as hooligans. Sam had a smile as he started to show his excitement. He knew she was interested, and he prepared himself for negotiations.

  ‘I am not telling you a name, but the guy who developed this said that you made a mistake kicking this man out of . . .’

  For Shannon, to hear this from a man of this standard angered her to the heart. She interrupted him abruptly, showing no sympathy. ‘Whatever he said is not important now. How good are these pictures?’

  ‘The negatives will show their certainty, won’t they? Well, I still have them in my room.’ He said calmly.

  She knew they were entering blackmail talks.

  ‘According to my man, he is drawing more people with every event. If you want to become popular again, I think this is your best chance.’

  ‘Best chance, my arse,’ she said. She was annoyed with this man’s confidence, and she knew she had to bring the ball back into her court.

  ‘Who are these men they were fighting with, and what happened after the fight? Were any charges laid against our priest and his men? If they didn’t, then, I want to know why not. Maybe they might be the hooligans here, and I might be setting myself up for an even worse disaster.’

  This put Sam completely off track, and it showed on his face. This woman was no fool and realised he needed to step up his act a bit. His desperation for the money was stronger than the truth. When he spoke again, it was as if he was hurriedly trying to stop her from pulling out of the offer.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘It is still not too late for them to lay charges. If I convince them to do so, you would have the law on your side, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘The law on my side . . . For what would I need the law on my side? Are you drawing me into some kind of blackmail Sam?’

  ‘Not at all, what I meant is, if you have to show the pictures on the news, there will be a police docket to back it up.’

  Shannon could see he was in a corner and she wanted to keep him there. ‘Sounds like the best thing that came out of your mouth in the last ten minutes, Sam. Tell you what; you convince them to lay charges, bring me the case number, and I will pay your asking price. There are, however, some conditions.’ She pushed her face forward, closer to his, and she could see he had lost a lot of the self-assurance he had come with.

  ‘One, they must be willing to tell their story on camera . . . and they must not be shy to speak about the aggressiveness of these people. I want to see and broadcast all the injuries inflicted on them. Two, I do not deal with your friends. You deal with them and pay them from your own pocket. Is that understood?’

  ‘I have no problem with that. Consider it done, but what about my money for the pictures?’

  Shannon was expecting this question and answered him with conviction. ‘I am giving you a thousand up front and not a cent more until I have those guys on video. You will also sign this document . . .’ She handed him an official company form. ‘This here gives me the sole rights over all the photos you have taken of that brawl between these two parties. That includes the negatives and any other copies that you might not have given me. You cannot discuss this with anybody who can print or broadcast this, or offer this again to any media person, and you are not allowed to blackmail anybody with it. So fill in the date, your name, the number of copies you handed to me, and your signature. Here is your money, and then you can leave.’

  There was a bit of hesitation in his eyes as he gave her a look of disappointment. ‘Are you taking my offer or not?’ she asked, very much in a hurry to get Sam out of her office.

  He took a pen from her holder, filled in the form, signed it, and was about to leave when she stopped him.

  ‘I want your phone number to arrange our next meeting. This is the last time we meet here.’ She pressed a button on her desk, and the door opened almost immediately. The same security officer walked in.

  ‘Yes, Miss Buoys?’

  ‘Vic, I want you to sign as witness on this form of Mr . . .’ she looked at Sam to give his surname.

  ‘Scholes, Sam Scholes.’

  ‘Sign for Mr Scholes, and you can walk him out for me. We are done here. Thank you, Vic.’

  A minute later, she was alone. There was a frown and then a smile on her face when a thought crossed her mind. It might be impossible to whip the Teacher, but now she could bring the whole stage down with everybody on it.