by Kit Power
“Even now?”
She sees the blade move in her peripheral vision, the red shape lift like rain, return.
She swallows, mouth dry again.
“Yes, even now.”
He nods, processing, wheels spinning.
“And have you been praying?”
“I have, yes. For myself, for our child, for my husband. For all of us.”
“All of us? Even the woodlouse?”
His tone is light, conversational, but she hears an edge of anger, buried deep but lurking, a razor blade hidden beneath the skin of an apple.
“I... Yes. Even you. I have prayed for you to see the wrong in what you are doing, to feel God’s love, to turn away from this path.”
Another single nod.
“Thank you for that.”
It surprises her, somehow, throws her. She sees his eyes mist up for a moment, before clearing.
“Can I ask you something? As a believer?”
She frowns, shakes her head, exasperation mixing with dread, the cocktail making her feel nauseous. Who is he, to ask her permission at the point of a blade? Why does he talk like they’re just having a conversation in the street?
“What choice do I have?”
He starts back at that, seeming genuinely surprised, even hurt. She feels the exasperation and fear both double down, because she thinks that somehow, in his mind, this is a choice, some kind of... not game, but exercise, some kind of extreme theatre. She thinks that he does believe what he says, that he is trying to talk to God, that he sees them all not as victims of some hideous crime, but as participants in his cause. The dissonance troubles him, far more than beating a crippled girl or thrusting a sword into the stomach of the preacher bothered him. She feels her terror rise in earnest at this revelation, because it means the side of this man’s mind is like solid ice, and they can scrabble and shout and bang against it, see through it, but never penetrate, never move him, and that means...
It means causing the dissonance is very dangerous, because yes, enough of it might make the ice shatter, but it might just set him off instead. He means what he is saying, she knows that, believes it as strongly as she believes anything, and she curses her own anger, her flare of temper, and prays she hasn’t killed them all.
Please, God, Please.
“...choice. That’s why I’m asking.”
She’s missed the start through the sudden pounding of blood in her ears. She feels flushed, hot. She takes his meaning, even so.
“Okay, okay. Ask.”
He hesitates, nervous - again his face moves. Emotions clashing, she thinks.
“Has he spoken to you? Have you heard God’s voice?”
She is aware of the blade again, aware of the warning this man gave after he killed the preacher, she considers long and hard whether or not a lie makes sense. The problem is not the first lie, she thinks, but all the ones that will have to follow, the different version of her life she might have to articulate. Could she do it without slipping, distracted as she is? And if she were to slip, what would he do then?
No. Tell the truth and shame the devil.
“Yes, I have. Often, when I pray, I’ve asked questions, for guidance, and God has told me the path I need to take.”
He leans in, fascinated. He looks young, suddenly, frighteningly young.
“Can you... would you mind sharing an example?”
She thinks, but really there’s only one example. The story she always tells.
“Well, I prayed about Peter. My husband.”
She raises her hand without looking in his direction. Feels him take it in his own, the touch and shape instantly familiar, comforting.
“When I first met Peter, at church... well, I didn’t know quite what to make of him. I liked him and enjoyed his company, but... we had differences. I worried. About long term compatibility, and other things.”
She’s told the story so many times; the words are as familiar and comfortable as an old winter coat. Yet in this telling, she feels herself drawn back into the place the words describe, reliving the feelings.
“He’d made it clear that he took me very seriously, that he was devoted to me. He... declared an interest, I suppose you could say. And then we had a row – quite a bad one, it seemed at the time – and I took myself off and found a quiet spot. And I prayed.”
She closes her eyes here, giving herself over to the memory.
“And I said ‘Lord, tell me what I am to do about this man. I am lost, Lord, tell me the way forward. I would know your will, and be your vessel.’ And I stayed very calm, and very still, and finally I heard His voice. And He said ‘Peter is a good man. If you love him well, you will be well loved in return’.”
She takes a deep breath, and it shudders a little on the exhale. She doesn’t cry, doesn’t sob, but her throat is tight, achy.
She opens her eyes and sees the killer staring at her, transfixed. For a few seconds, neither speaks. Then he asks
“And this is Peter?”
She nods, unaware that Peter is also nodding in sync.
“And are you well loved?”
“I am. The Lord keeps his promises, I believe. And so does Peter.”
The young man nods again, smiles, and it lights up his face. For a second, she thinks maybe everything will be okay after all.
“It’s a good story. May I ask your name?”
“I’m Emma.”
“Well met, Emma.”
He goes quiet for a second, and she can see he’s hesitating, thinking.
“I... Emma, can I ask something else?”
She feels another flair of anger at this, at his perverse sham of permission, but this time she is ready for it, holds it in check.
“Yes.”
“What does He sound like? When He talks to you, what does His voice sound like?”
Again she feels possibilities turning in this moment, questions behind the question, the fear of a wrong answer, the futility of lying, and again she comes back to the simplest answer: the truth.
“He sounds... quiet. He doesn’t shout. I have to get very calm and relaxed. I really have to listen. He whispers. The words... I hear them in my heart. I know how that sounds, but it’s the truth. I hear His words in my heart, and they feel like love.”
The young man sighs at this, a ragged sound. He suddenly looks like he’s on the edge of tears.
“And... has He spoken to you, since...”
He waves the arm with the detonator, taking in the scene. She feels a ball of ice in her abdomen at that, feels her skin pop with sweat.
“No. No. I can’t... I can’t get calm enough to hear him.”
She makes eye contact, wanting him to hear this next, wanting him to feel it.
“I’m too afraid.”
She keeps her voice level by sheer will, but can do nothing about the tear that escapes the corner of her eye. So be it. Tell the truth. She feels Peter squeeze her hand, squeezes back in gratitude.
The young man lowers his head and closes his eyes. She’s not entirely unsurprised to see that he is crying too, tears rolling down to the end of his nose, dripping onto her shirt. Then he starts to moan, a low sound, like a fog horn. The moan lasts a long time, a single held note becoming quavery as his breath expires. His whole frame begins to shudder, and she stares with paralysed terror at the arm holding the detonator, the fist holding all their lives in the balance, trembling and twitching, and she sends up a sudden prayer as a yell in her mind but she hears nothing back, and instead she raises her free hand, and hesitantly strokes the face of her killer.
His response is immediate, violent. He leaps back, up and away, landing on his backside, sliding across the polished stage, with a yelp like a sleeping dog kicked awake. The sound is horrible, terrified. Trapped.
He scrabbles backwards, then finds his feet. Lifting his head, he draws a huge breath, then yells to the ceiling, cords in his neck standing rigid like wires under his skin, face turning red, voice ripping with
the force of it, like something leaving his body, arms rigid at each side, the sword and the detonator, justice corrupted she thinks, mind spinning, reeling, and she pulls Peter closer, an act of animal comfort, sure this is the end, and that’s when her next contraction hits, triggered prematurely by the chemicals flying into her bloodstream as a result of her terror, her body hearing the message from the brain, time is short, make hay, make hay, and it’s too soon and too big and she cries out in surprise and pain, the grip and clench enormous, body trying frantically to deliver the impossible, and ah God the agony, it blots out everything else, her jaw clamps and her hand crushes and she’s making her own animal moaning sound now, the parallel with the killer lost to her, along with all higher brain function, down here is only pain and fear and the push.
She tries not to, but might as well try and push away the ground beneath her back and fly. She strains, and feels something move, slide into place, something is happening, oh God, something is happening, but then the surge begins to abate, her muscles start to unlock, her breath returns to her. She feels the sweat running down her face, slicking her palms, feels Peter's poor hand, crushed into her own. She pants, each breath coming a little smoother, a little calmer. The contraction has passed, thank you Lord, the pain is lesser, thank you God, please Lord please God don’t make me have this child here. She makes eye contact with Peter, and God bless him he’s there, eyes seeking out hers, concerned, you bet, but with her all the way, thank you God, thank you for this good man.
She knows now, knows it’s for real, knows she is having this baby, and soon. She also understands at the raw, gut- level that fear will only force things to happen quicker, her body reacting to the danger by trying to save the child. Knows too that if the child comes too quickly, if her own terror drives the process, the coming of her baby might kill her. Might kill them both.
Don’t think about it. Don’t think about the man with the bomb and the blade. Don’t think about the yelling, the ranting from the stage, the voice spitting out words like they taste bad, hurling them into the room. Don’t think of elephants, she thinks grimly, remembering the childhood game her brother would torment her with on long car journeys. Don’t think of elephants, and it actually works, for a moment, all she can think of is elephants. She sees Dumbo, surrounded by the dancing pink elephants, freaking out, and it calms her, enough to regain eye contact with Peter, hold his gaze.
“Peter.”
“Yes, love?”
So calm. So strong for her. She chokes back a sob.
“Help me to not be scared, will you? I need to not be scared.”
He turns pale, his lips tighten, and for a terrible moment, she sees the terror in his own mind. The roaring fear of her being hurt, of what is to come, the birth and his own powerlessness. She sees these storms cross his face, and she has time to feel an icicle of panic in her chest, and a groaning feeling in her mind, as though something foundational has come under massive strain.
Then the clouds pass, and Peter smiles his brilliant smile. His free hand strokes her brow, smoothing her damp hair back against her scalp.
“Dear Lord, we thank you for the gift of our child. Lord Jesus we pray in your name for a safe delivery. Most Holy God we trust ourselves to your will, we...”
The words wash over her, soothing. She feels the ice melt, her mind’s anchors settle back into place. She is still scared - that last contraction was intense and painful, and she knows that it will get far worse before it gets better – but her man is with her. God sent her to him, and she will try to trust him, and to trust God, and she will try to ignore the sobbing now coming from the stage, try not to think about the man and the bomb and the blade.
She will try not to think about elephants.
No-one in the church is looking at the clock as it crosses midday, signalling the end of the morning. A little less than three hours have expired since this strange service began. Time continues to pass.
Chris is transfixed by the sobbing figure on the stage. He stares at the crumpled form. Observes the lowered head and the shaking shoulders, the fist holding all their lives in the balance resting in the lap of this sobbing man. He feels his hollow insides fill up with dread. They’re not going to make it. He’s not going to make it. He’s going to crack, the strain will get to him, or the despair, and all it will take is a second of inattention or failure, shit, even just a tremble, a spasm of some kind, and that’s all she wrote, see ya later alligator, they’re all just a collection of limbs floating skyward, blood and fire. Chris keeps seeing the fireball, erupting from the stage, rolling over and through all, consuming. He keeps seeing it, even as he lowers his head and tries to pray. Praying not to any God that might be there, not anymore, but to the figure on the stage; the fragile human form that has the power of destruction held under thumb pressure and is currently sobbing his guts out on the wooden stage.
Please. Please don’t kill us all.
His prayer matches Katie’s word for word. She too has abandoned attempts to reach outside the walls of the building. Without even realising it, she has started praying to the bomber, attempting to beam thoughts and feelings directly into his brain, hoping somehow to sway him, move him off this path. Please don’t kill us all. Please have mercy on us. Please let us live. She is becoming aware of a pressing need to pee, is becoming afraid that if this isn’t resolved soon, she will wee in her pants, the first time she will have done such a thing since infant school. A thing that before this day began she would have described as impossible, unthinkable.
But here she is. And the pressure is building, and so is the fear, and neither shows any sign of abating. She’s going to pee herself. She’s going to die in this place. She’s going to die with knickers full of wee, and somehow it is this last that is so... upsetting. It’s the humiliation; that’s all, the feeling of being reduced back to animal function. Horrible. She sends prayers to the huddled figure on the stage, her fear and need to pee growing in tandem, and behind both, a feeling she does not yet recognise as hatred begins to unfurl in her gut.
Deborah has lost all sense of time. Eyes shut; she sees herself floating in darkness, seated on a throne of nothing, up and down existing only as concepts in her mind. She floats. She focuses. Her anger now feels like a physical force as it rolls through her body, like a viscous fluid. She sends it up into her mind, feels her synapses firing and re-wiring in some exciting new configuration, sends it shooting down her arms, the wave giving her muscles strength, vitality. She returns it to her gut and feels her stomach muscles, well- defined thanks to the chair, contract, creating a wall. She imagines blades shattering against that wall, unable to pierce her flesh.
She sends it rolling down into her legs now, expecting to feel nothing, feeling nothing, hoping, visualising, and then there is something. A tingle, an itch. Damnably faint but undeniably there. She feels movement, as though the hairs of her legs were standing on end. Just a hint, a ghost of a whisper of a feeling, but it’s something, something she’s not felt in seven years.
Something real.
She sends more rage down there, filling her legs with a hot, glowing golden energy, burning them out from the inside, willing them to return to her. She bears down with her out breath, pushing down with her body as well as her mind, unaware of the grimace on her face, the fact that she’s sweating, that her head is trembling with the effort, she grits her teeth in her bruised jaw and wills the rage deep, to connect...
A sudden jerk causes her eyes to snap open in surprise. She looks first left, then right, face still snarling. The pregnant woman on her left is lying on the ground, eyes shut, sweaty and pale. Her husband holds her hand and looks down at her, his face serene and distant – to Deborah, he looks like an idiot. To her right, the CP boy is twitching, but is looking at his carer, who is wiping drool from his chin. She takes a moment to feed her hate with a fresh wave of contempt for their sheep-like devotion to each other – they probably really think they can pray their way out of this –
before her eyes travel downward, at which point her breath catches in her throat. She stares and stares, unable to process, blood pounding in her head, heart thumping under her ribs, sweat dripping unnoticed from the point of her nose onto her lap.
Her left foot has moved.
Several seconds pass before she notices she is feeling faint, and there’s still a couple more before she realises why and exhales before drawing in a sudden, shivery breath.
Her left foot has moved. It’s no longer resting in the cup where it sits; the heel is no longer flush against the back wedge. It’s shifted a good couple of inches forward. She remembers the jerk that took her out of... whatever it was she was doing, and the enormity of what has happened, of what is happening, explodes across her mind, a euphoric rush.
Holy fucking shit.
I have to go back she realises at once, the intuition she’s been riding to this point driving harder than ever, and she tries, but at first she can’t. Her mind keeps returning to her left foot, so beautifully, impossibly displaced, and she feels like grinning, and that stops her from being angry.
Anger is the key that turned the lock, child. She can’t get back there, which is frustrating, and that helps, frustration is a start, she cues into that, imagines dying here with her left foot that same useless couple of inches out of place, and that sparks into anger. She looks up to the stage, at the bomber who is now sobbing, trembling (how long has he been there? Why is he crying?), who has brought her so far but will take her no further, may in fact end it all before it’s even began, and slowly but surely the anger becomes rage. The hatred returns to her, like a glass of cold water to the desert survivor, and at 12:47, three minutes after her left leg moved under its own volition for the first time in seven years, Deborah closes her eyes and slips back into the darkness to float once more.
Alex is feeling impatient on a level she would not have credited could exist prior to this day. Her demeanour has remained calm, which is some kind of fucking miracle right there, but she feels like her insides have reached a level of vibration that will soon hit the resonating frequency of her own skull, at which point it’s going to be Scanners time all over the row in front. She stares at the backs of their heads – an elderly gentleman in a green coat and a hat, an older woman with grey curly hair, some shorthaired 30 something male – imagines them drenched with the blood and grey matter from her exploding head. It should make her feel like smiling, but not today.