Free Kristin by Michael Ashley Torrington Page B

head lay in the
gutter, and in the centre of the road the remainder of its body trickled the
creature’s blood downhill, where it ran around the soles of his shoes. The
remains of mutilated chickens littered the thoroughfare. He glanced into the
hedges on his right and balked — a decapitated horse ! Foremost, he was a servant
of God. Secondly, he was a lover of   animals and he offered up a prayer of forgiveness for those guilty of
the heinous acts of butchery.
    Gilbreath continued,
quickening his pace, and turned right onto Newgate Street. He opened the gate
to the public footpath through the fallow crop field, rounded the bend that
afforded the first view of St Anne’s and halted, dropping the slim, leather
case containing his sermon. The church had been defaced — daubed with black paint that all but
obscured the ancient , Norman brickwork .
    He left his his case in the
road and approached the disfigured place of worship. A stillness hung over the
building like a halo of death. No cars were parked outside, nobody waited,
there was no need, the large, oak doors were wide open. He passed beneath the
arch and whimpered, grabbing the wall — St Anne ’ s Church had been desecrated beyond all
recognition.
    Irreplaceable tapestries
lay shredded on the cold floor slabs. Mosaics had been hacked out of their
frames. The white marble figure of Christ had been smashed from its wooden
cross and lay in pieces at his feet. In the east transept rare triptychs had
been plastered with what looked, and smelled, like human faeces.
    He shuffled up the nave.
The altar had been doused with red pigment. When he stood before the ceremonial
table he realized the awful truth — the altar was awash with blood ! It dripped from
the corners of the white, silk altar cloth, collecting in the hollows of the
large flagstones. He rushed back down the nave, ducked into the pews and
vomited, then wandered outside in a daze. Rectangles of paper blew in swirls
around the headstones in the   small
graveyard.
    Gilbreath pushed open the
gate and caught one: “ St Luke, 21, Destruction   of Jerusalem ”. He gathered each and every bible page and slipped
them into his jacket pocket. Then something else caught his eye. From the muddy
mound of an eighteenth century grave something glinted. He squatted and dug the
magnificent gold and silver altar cross out of the frosty turf. Gilbreath
gritted his teeth in fury and re-entered the church. He marched briskly back up
the nave and returned the cross to its rightful place. Then he turned, locked
the doors and left.
    Reverend Colin Gilbreath
would not see St Anne’s Church again.

 
    In Colchester, Essex, a well-dressed man in
his thirties mounted a frost-covered bench and bellowed for attention.
    ‘All of you, listen to me!
As we have known since the emitting of the siren there is an alternative to the
liar, God, and his bogus son, Jesus Christ!’
    Two passers-by stopped.
    ‘One who doesn’t lie, or
deceive, one whose teachings are pure and true!’
    More gathered.
    ‘We should worship her, do
her bidding! We should cheat, steal and lie in her name! We should rape,
murder!’
    The impromptu oration
sparked the growing crowd into a frenzy. But two exceptions were a mother and
her young daughter, standing mournfully on the periphery of the crowd.
    ‘You know of whom I talk,
you’ve felt her hunger, her presence! And as our faith in her grows, so does
her power! Some have chosen to retain their belief in Christianity! We will
find them, convert them, or kill them!’
    The horde screamed
deliriously as he unfurled a tapestry of Christ and set it ablaze with a petrol
lighter.
    The speaker’s attention was
suddenly drawn to the motionless, weeping   women. He pointed at them. ‘For example, take this pair of Christian
slags!’ he jeered. ‘Look ... they still believe in their saviour, their Jesus! We should teach
them a lesson , don’t you think ?’
    His proposal met with howls
of approval, and the