by I Beacham
Now she took stock of what was around her. Amid the mess and wreckage, she saw a trail of dried blood leading from the room where the explosion had been. The blood streaked across the linoleum and up to the broken kitchen window, its stains evident on the sill. Horror gripped her. She realized the dragging sounds had been either Kurt’s or Mitch’s body being thrown through it. Thrown like baggage.
Joey edged closer to the window, careful to avoid being seen or touching her friend’s blood. There was nothing outside except devastation. She saw dead bodies. They had been left to rot where they fell. She didn’t see her friends. The town was in ruins and its streets full of twisted metal and mounds of masonry where buildings had once stood. Nothing moved except a dog running around looking for food. She was hungry too.
She forced herself to enter the skeleton of the room where they had all last shared a laugh, afraid of what she might see. But there was nothing. No evidence that they’d ever been there. Nothing had survived. Even if it had, the rebels had picked it clean like locusts.
Joey crossed the room sticking close to the back wall since the floor looked unsafe, and there was no wall where the balcony had been. Fear flooded her, and her breath caught. What if all the rebels hadn’t left? What if they saw her?
She started down the stairs toward the exit below. A wave of dizziness hit her, and she lost her footing and fell to the bottom. For a moment, she didn’t move, and when she did, her shoulder hurt like crazy. Its pain bit into her, reminding her she was alive. It made her more determined to survive. She would get out of here. She would not die in this wasteland of a place.
She left the building, struggling to decide which way to go. Why couldn’t she remember which direction led back to base camp?
Joey stumbled through the streets, her legs occasionally giving way. She fell to the ground often. Sometimes she saw an old man or woman who had survived the carnage. They looked shell-shocked and wandered about without direction or purpose. If they saw her, they showed nothing. They didn’t try to approach her. It was as if she really was invisible. These last days, she had prayed for that.
She entered what once might have been termed a pretty market square. All she saw now were battered, blood-stained bodies, many hanging on poorly constructed crosses with handwritten placards around their necks. She couldn’t read their words but knew their accusatory meaning.
Her vision blurred and her head hurt. A dense fog and a feeling of confusion swirled in her mind. But then she sensed she wasn’t alone, and as she did, she remembered her purpose. She forced herself to stand erect.
“Are you getting this, Kurt?” she said. “Is the light okay? Stick with me…keep filming.”
She turned to look at him, but no one was there. A cold steel blade of fear ran through her. She was becoming delusional. If she lost her mind, she would die. She breathed in deeply. “I must find the road home. I must find the road home,” she started chanting the mantra. Surely if she said it enough times, the message would remain even if her mind didn’t…some automatic homing message?
She dragged her feet as she moved around the square, the headache increasing.
“I’m Josephine Barry, and I’m here in the town of…I can’t remember, Kurt. What’s this place called?” She frowned. Why couldn’t she recall that either? “It doesn’t matter. We’ll edit that later.” She pointed out front. “This is the market square, and you can see the carnage. Just like…all the other places. They destroy everything.”
She looked up. Familiarity and shock hit her.
Facing her was a decapitated head on a spike.
The face was Mo’s, their guide. Bruised, battered, bloodied, but recognizably him.
She stepped back and fell to the ground.
The placard attached to the spike held one word. She knew this one. Traitor.
Beheading was for those who betrayed Allah, the ones who worked for the infidels. They had known he was their interpreter.
“Get this, Kurt. Everyone must see this. No one must forget.” Her voice was hoarse.
She struggled to her feet.
“We’re losing light, but keep filming. We’re going to get out of here. We’ll walk back if we have to.”
Which way? I must find the road home.
She glanced up the main street to the left and then to the right. She still couldn’t work out the route back to base camp. It was stupid. She’d driven them all here. She knew the route. Why couldn’t she remember?
“We’ll have to walk, guys. This way…we’ll try this way.”
She fell again and the dust rose and stuck to her sweating face.
She threw up before resting on all fours and waiting for another wave of dizziness to pass.
“We’re not going to die here. We’re going home.”
I must find the road home.
Joey walked until the town disappeared behind her. She forced herself to put one foot in front of the other, but she was in bad shape and weakening. She should never have drunk the water.
Time distorted. Was it an hour later? Was it more? Was she still under the sink and this was an hallucination? Was she ever in Balshir? Would she wake in clean sheets to find this was a nightmare?
Joey saw something on the rough dirt road ahead of her. It looked like a dark blob on the horizon that shimmered in the heat of the sun like a mirage.
As she studied it, the blob grew bigger until she saw it was a large truck loaded with people. She could see them all over it, on its top, holding on to its sides.
The vehicle drew closer and she could see faces and make out their clothing. They wore fatigues and were brandishing weapons. They weren’t Westerners. She was walking into the hands of the rebels.
She stopped.
They would see her now; she couldn’t escape. But she wouldn’t stand and wait to be slaughtered.
With the little energy left in her body, she turned off the road and headed into the rocky terrain to her side. It was a meaningless act since there was no cover, no shelter.
She tripped and fell to her knees. Another wave of dizziness hit her.
It occurred to her that this was it then.
This was where she was going to die.
“Guys, we can stop filming now.”
Everything went black.
Chapter Two
The Reverend Samantha Savage, vicar of St. Mary and All Saints, Ribbley, parked outside the church and got out of her car.
She’d handed her life over to God’s work when she was in her teens, and until now, aged fifty-three years, the union had worked well. But it wasn’t today.
Sam leaned on the vehicle and looked at the imposing structure before her.
This was the largest parish church in Worcestershire with parts dating back to the eleventh century. It was a Grade One listed building and very important to the history of Ribbley. It had fine tower stands on the south side and niches for statues and paneled battlements. Beyond the expected services, important civic events took place here, and it was where organizations like the Scouts and Guides held their own services. The church was rooted in the core activities of the large town, which was why Sam was depressed.
As she looked across at the magnificent stained-glass windows and small turret containing a staircase to the nave roof, she growled.
Most of the roof was missing. There were structural defects that could no longer be ignored, and urgent roof repairs were taking place. The builders were in and had stripped half of the one side of the roof to the extent that she could see timbers that probably hadn’t seen the light of day for centuries. It was expensive work, and despite several grants, there was still much money to be raised. An appeal had been launched, and Sam just hoped everything would come together in time.
The bishop was coming to see her today for an update. She sighed. At least she could tell him everything was now moving in the right direction. The survey was done. The repairs were progressing. The finance was…coming along. What else could go wrong?
There was an almighty creaking sound that grew louder. Sam stared in horror as the remaining half of the roof disappeared from sight. She heard the heavy timbers crashing inside the church. At the same time, a mushroom cloud of dust and debris pushed up into the air.
As she stood there pulverized and in shock, she saw a ladder appear through the dust and a man’s face emerge. It was covered in white dust, and he looked like a ghostly apparition. He coughed a few times before waving to her. It was Bob Needham, the builder.
“It’s all right, Rev,” he shouted. “Bit of a setback, but looks worse than it is. No one hurt. We’ll have the mess cleared up in a jiffy.” He glanced back down into the building. “Well, it’ll be okay for Sunday service.” He smiled and threw her a thumbs-up before disappearing back down the ladder.
“Dear Lord, send me a miracle,” she sighed, looking up into the blue sky. At least it wasn’t raining. For that she was grateful.
Sam locked the car and made her way into the church, dreading what she would find. The scouts would be arriving in less than three hours, the choir was rehearsing later, and the bishop was due soon. It occurred to her that her ordination schooling many years ago had not stretched to broom skills. She was about to acquire on-the-job training.
*
Two hours later, the church was starting to fill with expected visitors.
Sam heard footsteps behind her in the aisle and turned to see the builder ambling toward her. His face wore purpose. Her heart sank.
“Oi, Rev.”
Sam reminded herself that his heart was in the right place even if his greetings etiquette wasn’t. “Where is the respect built on eons?” she said not without humor.
“You what?”
She raised her hand in capitulation. “No matter. What delicacy of news do you bring me? I hope it isn’t bad.”
“It depends on your point of view.” Bob sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve.
All God’s children, she thought.
“You know that miracle you’re always going on about?” he said.
“Yes?” Sam’s spirits lifted.
“You’re gonna need it.”
She bit her lip.
“Good news, bad news,” he continued.
Sam stiffened. “Spit it out.”
“The rafters in the east wing are full of woodworm.”
“Which will have to be treated,” she said.
“Too late for that,” he said. “They’ve been feasting for centuries. New timbers needed, I’m afraid.”
Sam raised fingers to her temples and circled. A headache was starting. “This is awful.”
“Doesn’t God revel in feeding the multitude?”
Bob’s attempt at humor fell flat. Sam was not impressed with his biblical knowledge.
“Not with church rafters, Bob. The bishop is not going to like this.”
She paused. “And the good news is?”
“Look on the bright side, Rev. Your congregation has increased tenfold.”
*
The St. Mary Scouts converged on the church like a swarm of tiny uniformed bees on a busy mission.
Unusually, the entire group was present. There was the Scout Beaver Colony, the Scout Cub Pack, and the Scout Troop. They were all children of varying ages, and all very alive and boisterous. They were using the church hall, attached and accessed through the main church, to prepare for a Summer Day parade. Today they were making seed bombs that were part of a “creative challenge” of reforestation, a technique of introducing compressed bundles of soil containing seeds into the environment where needed.
Part of their Summer Day Parade involved singing jamboree songs, and Maude Simpson was present to play the organ. Play was not a word Sam really associated with Maude’s musical abilities, but the partially deaf eighty-year-old woman tried hard. She was only supposed to be a temporary fix until a new organist could be found. The last incumbent had collapsed and died over the organ while playing, “Nearer my God to Thee.”
Maude had just hit a wrong note, making Sam flinch, when the bishop arrived.
Bishop Neil Covey-Smartingdon walked confidently down the aisle. He was a huge bear of a man with a constant look of amusement always resting on his handsome features.
Sam liked him the minute she met him. They had trained and been ordained together many years ago. She considered him and his family her closest of friends.
He walked up to her and gave her a warm hug.
“You’re looking well.” His natural enthusiasm for life echoed in his voice. He glanced down at a pew and picked up a scout booklet. “Guerrilla Gardening Seed Bomb Guide,” he read aloud. “Is this serious?”
Sam couldn’t hide a smile. “Yes.”
“They’re not doing it here?”
“Yes.”
“Actual bombing?” His confusion made her laugh.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Practice,” she said.
“Right.” His focus changed. “I like what you’ve done to the roof.”
Sam sighed. This was so typical of Neil. Nothing ever seemed to faze him. It was probably why he’d made bishop. He looked at her and must have seen the exasperation on her face.
“Okay, okay. Be calm, Sam.”
“I’m having a bad day, Neil.”
“What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong? Everything is wrong. Look at the mess. It’s going to cost a fortune.”
“You’ve launched a public appeal for funds. Money’s coming in.” His calm voice resonated around the church.
It had no effect on Sam. “We’ll never raise the sort of money to meet the costs of these repairs, Neil. You could probably build a cheaper church.”
“Now you’re being dramatic.”
“I’m not, and you know it. This is a Grade One building. This baby eats money like…roof termites chomping wood.” She grimaced at the irony.
The bishop rested an appeasing hand on her shoulder. “Emergency repairs will stave off the bigger jobs and give us time.”
“You think? The rain’s been running down the walls.”
“But it’s sunny now.”
“It’s got into the organ.”
As if by provident timing, Maude hit a few wrong keys.
The bishop flinched. “Ah, so it has.”
“No. That’s Maude,” she said. “I need a new organist.”
They looked up onto a raised level where Maude was playing. She wore a multicolored shapeless hat, and a cigarette hung off her lips.
“Smoking’s banned inside churches,” Neil said without any real thought.
“You can tell her then,” Sam scoffed. “She’s already threatened to walk out unless we stop the leak and fix the organ.”
More wrong notes filled the air.
Neil screwed his eyes shut as if in pain. “That might be a blessing. You need a miracle.”
“I need several, but no one is listening.” Sam cast her eyes to the heavens.
“God’s backlog of work, I expect.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
Sam was thinking of her own burgeoning list of things to do.
She took him through to the vestry where they could talk without interruption, and briefed him on the update of the roof, including the infestation of hungry mouths.
“That’s not all, Neil. When am I going to get a treasurer?”
The post had been vacant for nearly five months. Peter Asprey had left her in the lurch when his lotto numbers came up and he won a decent amount of money. He left shortly after to go live with his sister in New Zealand.
Peter’s gain had been Sam’s loss.
The position of treasurer was pivotal. Appointed by the church council, treasurers were responsible for many thousands of pounds flowing through the church funds. They carried out the financial decisions made by the diocese and national church, and were also responsible for both raising and spending money. Until Peter had resigned, he had done all of this
competently. Sam’s problem was that no one wanted to replace him, especially as the task now involved the major project of renovation and all that entailed.
Sam was filling the gap. Drafting annual budgets and proposing financial objectives was not what she saw as her role as vicar. It gobbled up her time and placed no amount of stress on her shoulders.
The bishop shook his head. “I’m working on it and pushing the church council, but we haven’t had many volunteers.”
“How many?” Sam asked hopefully.
“None.”
At least Neil showed remorse. She knew he was trying hard. It just didn’t help her predicament.
“I’m no bookkeeper, Neil. Please keep trying. And I suppose now isn’t a good time to ask about an increase in vicars for this parish?” She eyed him. “The bigger the parish, the more vicars needed.”
Neil didn’t bother to answer. They both knew there was a manpower shortage of clergy, and that many parishes were waiting for the newly ordained. It was happening all over the Christian world. Kids finished school and went straight into other careers to become lawyers, doctors, IT specialists, and so on. They weren’t heading for theological college. Clergy now were mature men and women leaving their careers late to enter the church.
“How’s the roof appeal going?” Neil asked.
“The local newspaper has run an article for me, and some money has trickled in. It’s generated some interest in a radio station in Birmingham. They’re going to send someone to interview me.”
“Excellent.”
“They want to know about the history of the church, its issues. I’ll do anything that raises our profile and—”
Neil stopped her.
“You’re letting this all get on top of you. If the money doesn’t come in, then the diocese will have to raid their own coffers and fund the repairs. True, they won’t be happy, but they’ll just have to do it. Don’t take all of this to heart.” He paused. “Have you stopped the rain from getting into the organ?”
“Yes. Bob’s sorted the roof leak above it.”
“Good. I’ll send a chap out to look at the damage to the organ. It might just be damp. We had similar issues with the one in the cathedral. Leave it to me.”
