by Stan Mason
Dobson screwed up his face dolefully. ‘It could take years to find something on the Internet even if it’s in there. You know how time speeds away when you’re on it.’
‘Why don’t you have a word with that reporter on The Bulletin. He may have a few ideas how to proceed. We could get a private detective but the cost would be prohibitive... especially as he’d have to start from scratch. Who knows, Stephen Warrior might not even be his real name!’
‘You could go round to his house and talk to the people who live with him. I understand there’s a woman and he has two disciples. You could say you’ve come from where Warrior used to live and someone bequeathed some money to him in a Will.’
‘I don’t like that idea,’ retorted Brown unhappily. ‘It means lying and if the truth comes out we shall be in trouble.’
‘I’ll go and have a word with that reporter to see whether he can give us a lead,’ related Dobson, rubbing the index finger of his right hand along his moustache again as he rose from his seat. ‘This is strictly between the two of us, mind you. I would not appreciate being made foolish to the other members of the committee.’
‘Just between the two of us,’ repeated Brown. ‘See what you can find!’
Dobson left the studio with the world resting on his shoulders. He suddenly realised that he had assumed full responsibility for the task. Warrior was probably an ordinary citizen with no axe to grind except that he saw visions of Gods and Goddesses in his dreams. He then had a brainstorm to go to the reference library and look at the microfilm of newspapers in the past. He felt that if a crime was warranted it would be published somewhere. The problems were where and when! It was going to be an enormous task searching though the pages over the past eight years. At the library, someone brought him the boxes of microfilm and he loaded the machine accordingly. Not bothering to buy newspapers, he was surprised at the garishness of the content which concentrated on divorces, activities of the gay society, murders, sexual diversions, deceit by famous people, criminal activities, drunk drivers, and a whole miscellany of evil acts performed by the public.
Slowly and ponderously his eyes searched the screen for any headlines or stories which would enable him to succeed in his quest. As time passed by, both his hands and his eyes grew tired, however good fortune deserted him because he failed to find anything of interest. Then his head began to spin and his eyes stung with the effort. Feeling slightly unwell, he went to a nearby machine to buy himself a cup of coffee and sat in an easy chair. He sipped it slowly recalling that he had high blood-pressure and type two diabetes and he was overdoing it. He closed his eyes for a while thinking what a fool he had been to decide on this tactic yet, after a while, he returned to the viewing machine for a while longer only to stop when he began to suffer a severe headache. Reluctantly, he returned the microfilm to the counter and left the building to inhale the fresh air on the outside. In essence, he regarded it to be a pointless exercise. His head ached, his eyes were sore, and he felt quite dispirited. He had covered almost two years of newspaper and had come up with absolutely nothing. All he could think about were the vile situations published every day in one newspaper or another. Then, as if to challenge his resolve, doubt began to creep into his mind. What if Warrior was thirty-two years old. It was very hard to tell one’s age. That would mean a further six years of researching the newspapers. It was not a happy thought. Dobson’s niece was typical example. She had married and had three children yet she looked so young, that when she answered callers at the door, they would ask if they could see her mother. T might be the same way with the messenger. Filled with such dismal thoughts, he arrived at the apartment where he lived alone, his wife having died five years earlier. He sat in an armchair with his head in his hands for a long time in the darkness, for the light hurt his tired eyes, taking in deep breaths periodically in an attempt to relieve the pain in his head..
However such drawbacks were not sufficient to deter the old stalwart. On the following morning, he awoke with a buzzing searing through his brain and some soreness of the eyes. Nonetheless, his mind was consumed with the task and he was determined to continue. He returned to the same machine with greater composure and, after installing the microfilm, turned to the pages once more, However Lady Luck was not on his side. His eyes ran through one heading after another but nothing of any interest emerged. This time he worked for almost two hours before taking a break. For some strange reason, he felt convinced that he would find something evil about the messenger.. It was necessary for him to persevere until he came up with a positive result. After a further half hour, his eyes started to become tired and his head began to pulsate, He was loath to retire at this stage but his physical disabilities could not be denied. He closed down the machine, returned the microfilm to the counter, and went home, having exhausted, in total, five years of newspaper reporting. He reckoned that he was half way through his research but the problem was that his enthusiasm began to wane rapidly. It was unlikely that he would find anything to denigrate Warrior’s character. Nonetheless, he returned to the reference library the following day to continue with his quest. He would make one final effort and, if he failed to find anything this time, he would give up. He sat at the viewing machine scrolling through the pages until, suddenly, he found himself staring at a photograph of the messenger, albeit the man’s hair looked different and he appeared to be much thinner... but it was definitely the same person. His eyes ran eagerly to the text beside the photograph and his blood raced swiftly through his veins. He had found what he had been searching for... it lay before him in cold hard print! The story read of Stephen Warrior who had been accused by the police of killing his parents in a fire. He had been charged with arson and, subsequently, of first-degree murder. After read on, it appeared that there was insufficient evidence to prove that Warrior was guilty and so he was never brought to justice and was free to roam the streets. However the allegation had been made even if it couldn’t be proved. The messenger had been accused of arson and murder! Dobson could hardly contain his excitement... his perseverance had brought him triumph. He took a number of photocopies of the article and placed them carefully into his briefcase. The information would certainly prove his value to the committee but he first had to show the details to Charlie Brown. Without delay, he sped to the photographic studio feeling on top of the world despite suffering from a slight headache and sore eyes. When he arrived there, he removed the photocopies from his briefcase jubilantly and placed them on the desk before the other man.
‘Bingo!’ he shouted triumphantly. ‘Wait until you read this!’
Brown read the article and whistled through his teeth. ‘This is just what the doctor ordered,’ he said smiling broadly. ‘Arson and murder! I wonder what happened at the hearing?’
‘I don’t think there was one,’ returned Dobson sadly. ‘The police couldn’t find enough evidence to charge him.’ He ran the index finger of his right hand along his moustache. ‘I could look up the Court records but I don’t think I’d find anything there.’ They had to let him go.’
‘Pity!’ uttered the photographer, ‘but mud sticks!’ He paused to look at his colleague. ‘You’ve done a good job, Gordon. A real good job!’ He was convinced that he would have the approbation of the committee for find the article and they would use it to their advantage. How they would go about it was a matter for discussion. No doubt they would come to some kind of conclusion... but that wasn’t his affair. Most importantly, they had found the skeleton in Warrior’s cupboard and could make full use of it to denigrate the man and stop him in his tracks for good!
***
St. Michael’s church had been a relic stemming back from its erection in the early 1300s under the auspices of a local baron. Since the beginning of the 1800s, it had been renovated many times, Oddly enough, the original stone walls were still in existence but the roof was now supported by staunch timbers which were only thirty years old. If it
had been granted eyes, the church would have witnessed many changes over the past centuries especially during the years of stress when it had been filled to the rafters with some two hundred-and-fifty all desiring to pray to God for help during war, plagues, famine, illness imminent death and for many other personal and economic reasons. In modern times, the congregation numbered no more than forty people on a good Sunday... the nucleus of the those attending. Their first act was to utter a brief prayer, bow, genuflect and find a their habitual pew staring at the large cross pinned to the wall with an effigy of Jesus Christ nailed by the hands and feet upon it. For the past eight years, two priests had been responsible for officiating at the services running through the prayers in the green booklet and arranging for the hymns to be sung. It was a humdrum experience for them and they were aware that while everyone heeded the readings from the Holy Bible and listened to the sermon, nothing would make them change their ways to become more Godly or charitable or develop a deeper faith. They were all religious diehards who went to church every Sunday by habit as they had done for so many years, It was a weekly ritual. In truth, the priests would rather have preached to the disbelievers than those who had already been converted but such was the way of life. Thirteen of those attending were over the age of seventy while the rest were relatively younger. Unless changes occurred in the religious environment of the church, the nucleus of thirteen would eventually rid themselves of their mortal mantle, some of the younger would move to different districts, and only a handful of people would be left to listen to the sermons. Change for the better was not on the agenda of any church council or authority. The only successful chapels and churches were those whether young people sang rock hymns or played guitars and other instruments. Nothing like that had ever happened at St. Michaels.
On this particular day, however, something did happen. When it did, the congregations would be divided into three groups. Some would become astonished and bewildered; some might become extremely angry; while the rest would allow the event to slip to the back of their minds perhaps with a modicum of amusement or pity. Warrior decided to attend this particular church because it was the one nearest to his home. Maidley had misinformed him by saying that it was well-attended which turned out to be false. It didn’t really matter. He had to start somewhere and St. Michaels was as good as any other church. The intrusion came halfway through the ceremony as one of the priests began the sermon. This was the time when the old people closed their eyes and dozed off because they had heard it all before... many times! The priest had just started on one of his favourite Biblical stories when the door burst open and Warrior burst in, with this two henchmen, to hurry down the aisle towards the altar
‘Stop!’ he ordered, holding up his hands to the priest in the pulpit. ‘Stop! I have a message for the congregation!’ The priest was so surprised at the interruption that his mouth fell open and he remained silent simply staring at the intruders. The messenger wasted no time in turning to the people in attendance. ‘In Genesis One verse Twenty-Six,’ he began solemnly, ‘God said “Let’s make man in our image”. Why isn’t there an image of God here? All I an see is an image of the body of Christ on the cross when he was being crucified by the Romans! I say again. Why is there no image of God here? It’s because he doesn’t exist! There are many Gods and Goddesses in the celestial kingdom. By praying to a nonexistent God you lose all your protection. That’s why your lives and the world’s in such a terrible state!’
The congregation stared at him in bewilderment sitting firmly in their pews. By this time, the priest in the pulpit had recovered his voice. ‘Now just wait a minutes!’ he managed to say. ‘We’re in the middle of a Sunday service! You have no right to intrude. Have you no shame?’
Warrior ignored the man and continued with his message. ‘In Exodus Twenty verse Four, Moses descended Mount Sinai and said that God had a message for his people. It went: “I am Jehovah your God who has brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of slaves. You must not have any other Gods against my face”. That’s what Moses told the people of Israel but he wasn’t telling the truth. There is no God called Jehovah but there are many other Gods and Goddesses. You must pray to them... they demand it! Put aside your Christian faith and it’s singular no-existent God Protect yourself from all the evil on Earth with their help. I strongly urge you to consider what I’m saying seriously.’
By this time, the second priest had moved forward and placed his hands firmly on the messenger’ shoulders with the intention of forcibly moving him out of the church. However Guildenstern quickly became aware of the man’s actions and he swung his arm to administer a severe blow to the priest’s head. The injured man fell back on to the alter with blood spurting from his nose. The reaction brought gasps of horror from the congregation and Warrior recognised that he had to redress the situation swiftly.
‘We do not come to harm anyone, I assure you,’ he asserted vociferously. The last thing he wanted to do was to visit the church and start scrapping with the priests. His primary aim was to put his message across incisively and passively. If such incidents of fisticuffs in churches on Sunday became reported to the Press, he would be branded as a bully and a rebel, little different to those members of the Nazi Party so hated throughout the world. It was essential for both him and his henchmen to remain passive on all occasions.
‘If you don’t leave this church immediately, I’ll call the police and have you removed,’ stated the older priest fervently.
By this time, the second priest had lifted himself up and escaped into the vestry to telephone the police.
‘Do as you see fit,’ retorted the messenger confidently. ‘I’ve come simply to deliver a message.’ He stared at the congregation intensely. ‘Each of you has built up a degree of respect in blind faith. But it is only blind. You have no idea whether your single God exists in the celestial kingdom. I’m asking you to ignore blind faith and think positively. Why did all the people in ancient times pray to Gods and Goddesses? Were they all wrong until Jesus Christ came on the scene and started preaching? I don’t think so.’ He pointed to the wooden cross with the effigy of Christ fixed upon it. ‘He was a normal human-being who was killed by the authority of the day. He had an ideal and asked people to follow him in blind faith. I’m asking you to go back to the true ways... to pray to all the Gods and Goddesses. It’s for your salvation, I promise you!’
‘Get out of here!’ shouted an old man in one of the middle pews. ‘We don’t need your sort in here!’
‘Yes!’ called out a woman on the other side of the aisle. ‘Have some respect for the people of the Christian religion! We don’t need your message in here!’
‘I saw you on television the other night,’ claimed a woman at the back of the church. ‘You spoke rubbish then and you’re speaking rubbish now!’
The resistance encouraged some of the other to give voice and they gave full vent to their displeasure. Warrior ignored their comments allowing them to run off him like water off a duck’s back. He was fully prepared to be heckled. He had to cause dissension... to make them think differently. He picked up a newsletter resting on the front pew, glanced at it and then looked up at them.
‘It says here in your newsletter,’ he related curtly, “In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places. I go to prepare a place for you” Can anyone tell me what that actually means. I don’t understand it and I’m sure that you don’t either.’
‘Well you wouldn’t, would you?’ snapped the old man in the middle pew. ‘You pray to many Gods and Goddesses, so how would you know?’
‘I’m serious!’ retorted the messenger. ‘In my Father’s house? How can God be Christ’s father. His father was a simple carpenter. So how come the change? It’s crazy!’ He turned the newsletter over to read the back page. ‘What’s this? Please pray for the church that we may lead the people in direction of Christ! don’t your priests mean ‘in the direction
of God?’ Who are you praying to here? To Christ or to your God? Logic and reason must tell you that it’s is all very irrelevant.’
His words brought a chorus of dissent although no one raised a hand towards him. The priest behind the altar, having seen what happened to his junior, decided to stay put to avoid any injury to himself.
‘I mean it!’ pressed Warrior firmly. ‘Who are you actually praying to? Is it the figure of Christ on that wall? I remember in your Holy Bible that your God said the there should be no other images than him. So what’s this... chicken soup? And what about the Trinity? The Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost!’ He stared harshly at the silent congregation. ‘The Holy Ghost? Are you kidding? Can anyone here tell me about him? No... you see you all follow blind faith. And I tell you, it does you no good!’
At that point, an obese man sitting near to the front picked up a hymn book at threw it at Warrior’s chest. The hall became silent again at the action and the messenger bent down to pick it up. ‘Is this all your hymn book is worth to you,’ he challenged grimly. ‘Something to throw at someone when he tells you the truth about religion. If so, perhaps I’m preaching to the wrong people.’
A small woman wearing a blue straw hat stood up meekly to face him. ‘Please,’ she pleaded, ‘We don’t want any trouble here. Leave us to pray quietly. Leave us to pray in peace!’
‘To whom, madam?’ asked the messenger pleasantly. ‘To whom do you pray? To your single God? To Christ? To the Holy Ghost? If you can provide me with a satisfactory answer I’ll leave you in peace.’
The woman sat down without replying to the questions believing that she had done her best to quell the situation. However it was the distant siren of an approaching police car that spurred the messenger into action. He preferred not to spend the rest of the day in a damp police cell charged with causing incitement inside a church or assault on a priest, so he motioned to his henchmen and they went towards the door.