Father Calin manoeuvred his supermarket trolley around the packed shelves into the next aisle, where stopped dead. The packets of tea, sugar and biscuits that he had bought for the weekly prayer meeting tumbled forward. The priest had caught a tall, broad-shouldered man in the act of donning a black balaclava, and pulling a glossy black object from beneath his dirty-grey jacket.
‘Good Lord,’ he muttered, as the man, who had not noticed him, strode up towards an old man and held him at gunpoint.
‘Give me strength, oh Lord,’ prayed Father Calin. Cold sweat trickled down his temples. He knew then, that his greatest trial was at hand. ‘Forgive me… I am weak… a sinner.’ The financial problems of the parish that had been nagging his brain and making him sleep badly, suddenly seemed very trivial.
The old man was mumbling in a pleading, croaking voice, while the assailant dragged him by the scruff of his neck towards the nearest cash point. ‘Hand over all the cash or I’ll blast his head,’ he said to the fidgety young lady behind the cash. His hostage was shaking like a frightened new-born lamb and a dark patch stained his cream pants.
‘For God’s mercy, please let him go!’ said Father Calin in a hoarse voice, as he walked closer towards the unlikely couple. He too was shaking; like a taut, vibrating cello string about to snap.
The concentric circles of the man’s malevolent eyes, surrounded by folds of skin and balaclava eyeholes, were the nine circles of hell. ‘Shut the fuck up priest and mind your own business.’
Father Calin shook harder as a thousand beating drums thumped in his head, accompanied by the shrill cries of the horde of trumpets that tore down the walls of Babylon. ‘I’m weak… I’m a sinner,’ he repeated to himself over and over like a mantra. The cashier stuffed paper cash into a plastic bag emblazoned with the red logo of the supermarket. Father Calin’s vision blurred and the logo turned into a splash of fresh, deep-crimson blood.
The elderly hostage sagged to the ground, unconscious, and for an instant, the gunman gaped in confusion.
Father Calin tore out the white collar of his office, and, like an angry hound that had broken its restraint, raced towards the man. Within the space of a heartbeat, he had clasped the hand holding the gun with both his hands, and pulled hard using the man’s thick, hairy wrist as pivot. The gunman’s cry of pain was accompanied by the clattering of the gun on the hard tiles.
Out of the corner of his eyes, Father Calin saw the man’s other hand curl up in a clenched fist and swing towards his face. Instinct now took over. Father Calin was buried; his old self had risen from the ashes. His left hand firmly deflected the blow that would have smashed his face in had it connected. ‘Turn the other cheek!’ shouted a taunting voice in is head, closing the phrase with a wailing, hysterical laugh-scream.
With a clean, cruel punch, Calin hit the throat of the thief with surgical precision. The popping sound of the smashed larynx was barely perceptible, but it drowned the wild laughter in his head. He flicked back his striking arm and held it like a recoiling snake poised for attack. It was ready to deliver the conclusive blow; the one that would crush the bones beneath the nose and drive them deep into the delicate inner tissue. The blow that would also drive him, Calin, deep into the darkness of the seventh circle.
The snake stood down, letting off the prey. The heavy-boned man, gasping for breath, slumped to the ground beside the old man. Assailant and victim stood in a heap, side by side; alike in their common misery. Calin bowed his head low and walked away, oblivious to the agitated voices around him. The white priest’s collar lay tossed and abandoned on the floor.
‘Good Lord,’ he muttered, as the man, who had not noticed him, strode up towards an old man and held him at gunpoint.
‘Give me strength, oh Lord,’ prayed Father Calin. Cold sweat trickled down his temples. He knew then, that his greatest trial was at hand. ‘Forgive me… I am weak… a sinner.’ The financial problems of the parish that had been nagging his brain and making him sleep badly, suddenly seemed very trivial.
The old man was mumbling in a pleading, croaking voice, while the assailant dragged him by the scruff of his neck towards the nearest cash point. ‘Hand over all the cash or I’ll blast his head,’ he said to the fidgety young lady behind the cash. His hostage was shaking like a frightened new-born lamb and a dark patch stained his cream pants.
‘For God’s mercy, please let him go!’ said Father Calin in a hoarse voice, as he walked closer towards the unlikely couple. He too was shaking; like a taut, vibrating cello string about to snap.
The concentric circles of the man’s malevolent eyes, surrounded by folds of skin and balaclava eyeholes, were the nine circles of hell. ‘Shut the fuck up priest and mind your own business.’
Father Calin shook harder as a thousand beating drums thumped in his head, accompanied by the shrill cries of the horde of trumpets that tore down the walls of Babylon. ‘I’m weak… I’m a sinner,’ he repeated to himself over and over like a mantra. The cashier stuffed paper cash into a plastic bag emblazoned with the red logo of the supermarket. Father Calin’s vision blurred and the logo turned into a splash of fresh, deep-crimson blood.
The elderly hostage sagged to the ground, unconscious, and for an instant, the gunman gaped in confusion.
Father Calin tore out the white collar of his office, and, like an angry hound that had broken its restraint, raced towards the man. Within the space of a heartbeat, he had clasped the hand holding the gun with both his hands, and pulled hard using the man’s thick, hairy wrist as pivot. The gunman’s cry of pain was accompanied by the clattering of the gun on the hard tiles.
Out of the corner of his eyes, Father Calin saw the man’s other hand curl up in a clenched fist and swing towards his face. Instinct now took over. Father Calin was buried; his old self had risen from the ashes. His left hand firmly deflected the blow that would have smashed his face in had it connected. ‘Turn the other cheek!’ shouted a taunting voice in is head, closing the phrase with a wailing, hysterical laugh-scream.
With a clean, cruel punch, Calin hit the throat of the thief with surgical precision. The popping sound of the smashed larynx was barely perceptible, but it drowned the wild laughter in his head. He flicked back his striking arm and held it like a recoiling snake poised for attack. It was ready to deliver the conclusive blow; the one that would crush the bones beneath the nose and drive them deep into the delicate inner tissue. The blow that would also drive him, Calin, deep into the darkness of the seventh circle.
The snake stood down, letting off the prey. The heavy-boned man, gasping for breath, slumped to the ground beside the old man. Assailant and victim stood in a heap, side by side; alike in their common misery. Calin bowed his head low and walked away, oblivious to the agitated voices around him. The white priest’s collar lay tossed and abandoned on the floor.