Free Last to Die: A gripping psychological thriller not for the faint hearted by Arlene Hunt Page A

the community. I tell you, the world is a very dark and lonely place and when we step forward we are the bringers of the light.’
    Caleb got the smile again.
    ‘What we do here, Art; what we do is truly God’s work. But I have been in refection of late. Jesus did not wait for the people to come to him. He did not keep them at arm’s length. No! Jesus  went  to the people. He was not afraid to get his hands dirty, he was not afraid to walk among the sick and the dying to show them the light of His love.’
    ‘You want me to try healing sick people?’
    ‘You are a hoot!’ Creedy threw back his head and laughed and tapped the side of his nose. ‘I have a friend who works over at the clinic on Druid’s Hill. I was hoping you might be free to volunteer some of your services to help her out.’
    ‘A clinic?’
    ‘Yes. It would be one night a week, two at the very most.’
    Caleb let his cogs whir for a moment. He tried to figure out what Creedy’s angle was in this, but came up blank.
    ‘What about the phone lines?’
    ‘Well, it’s true that we offer solace and compassion to those who reach out to us. But to be really in His light, we need to be  visible  and  among  our people. Pass me that bag there, would ya?’
    Caleb did as he was asked. Creedy unzipped the bag, rummaged inside and tossed Caleb a sealed plastic bag.
    ‘Open it!’
    Caleb opened it and withdrew a bright yellow t-shirt. Printed on the front was ‘Let the Light of the Lord Guide You’, on the back was ‘Voice of Hope’. Caleb lowered the t-shirt and stared at Creedy.
    ‘Aren’t they something? The colour was Helen’s idea. We need to let a little light shine in the darkness, that’s what she said. Wonderful woman. So what d’ya say, Art?’
    The following night, Caleb stood resplendent in bright canary yellow, staring into the ear of the director of the clinic as she fanned a set of photos with various names and aliases before him. Her name was Dorothy. She was a short, dumpy woman in her fifties, with a smell as sour as her face.
    ‘See now, you really need to learn these faces, Art.’
    Caleb glanced over the photos. ‘Who are they?’
    ‘These are those that the Good Lord has sent to test us. Believe me.’
    ‘Are they … clients?’
    ‘They are when it suits them. Look, all you need remember is that whatever any of these people tell you, it’s bound to be a lie. Do not, and I must stress this Art, do not lend any of these people money, no matter how plausible or heart-rending a story they lay on you. You hear?’
    He kept his expression carefully neutral.
    ‘I won’t, Dorothy.’
    ‘You’ll be working with Steve tonight. He’s an old hand and he’ll show you the ropes. But I mean it, these people here,’ she tapped the photos again, ‘they see a fresh face and the first thing they do is hit you up for something.’
    ‘Okay.’
    She folded her arms across her ample chest. ‘Okay, and another thing, there’s a photographer coming here shortly with Creedy. He’s going to take a few photos of you in that get-up, but once he’s gone you can remove that shirt. You look like Big Bird.’
    ‘Pastor Creedy’s idea.’
    ‘I’m sure it was,’ she said, drawing her mouth into a thin line. ‘But he’s not the one wearing it and as far as I’m concerned it marks you out in a way you don’t need to be marked.’
    Caleb nodded in complete agreement.
    ‘It’s going to be a long night ahead. You ready for the madness?’
    Caleb nodded again.
    ‘I wish more people felt the way you do, Art. The world would be a heck of a better place.’ Dorothy retired to the back office, leaving instructions with Caleb to call her if he needed her.
    At twenty to eleven, a blonde woman he recognised from the photos shoved the door from the street open and entered, half carrying a complaining, struggling junkie with her.
    ‘Uh-oh,’ Steve, his co-worker, said. ‘Here comes trouble. Think you can handle this one, Art?’
    Caleb