Authors: Brian Smith
Tags: #religion, #fraud, #religious fanaticism, #temple, #fanaticism, #fanatic
The Temple
Brian Smith
Copyright 2014
This is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are
either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a
fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or
dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Contents
Prologue
It is a pleasant sunny morning
in early autumn. Waiting at a bus stop in a town, it could be a
town just like the one you or I live in, are several people.
Standing at the front of the queue is a pensioner. After forty-five
years of toil and work at the post office he is finally looking
forward to enjoying some quiet time all on his own. Not today,
though. Today he is on his way to see his granddaughter. She is
just four years old and fills his heart with a joy he hasn’t known
for many long years.
Behind him in the line is a
young mother carrying her ten month old baby. Her baby fills her
life with a love that burns brighter than a thousand suns. Feeling
his little hands around her neck, his little cheek against hers as
he looks this way and that, gives her comfort and joy and a deep
sense of fulfilment. The long nights of broken sleep feeding him,
cleaning him, soothing him, all were gladly done for him.
Next comes a one legged man with
a crutch. A veteran from a war. He has served his country and lost
a leg on a mine. He feels no bitterness. He joined the army of his
own free will, knowing the risks he might be taking. He is proud of
having served his country, of having done his part to fight for
freedom so people back home could live in peace. After his
honourable discharge he was given a small pension, not much but
just enough to see him through. That and his job in a small
bookshop where he can spend most of the time sitting behind the
counter allow him to lead a pleasant life. He is on his way to
work. He has lost a leg, but he is proud that he works for his
living, does his part in society and isn’t a burden to anyone.
There are quite a number of
people queuing at the bus stop this morning. Housewives going on
errands, kids on their way to school, workers, clerks and other
good folk that make up your average town.
At last the bus approaches. The
people at the bus stop look at their watches, some wondering if
they’ll be late for work, others hoping to get a seat. Not a chance
today, the bus is quite full already.
Sitting on the bus by a window
is Sycko. He is also going to work, but work of a very different
sort. Unlike all the honest hardworking people around him he knows
he is on a mission for God. There is no doubt in his mind that he
is doing the right thing. Sycko knows that he is on the side of
God. He knows that he is right and that all the others are wrong.
They live in sin, in the sin of refusing to heed the word of the
only one. They aren’t humans, they are mere animals, no, even
worse, they are an abomination in the eyes of the Lord, and he,
Sycko, is there to set things right. He is proud that God, the
all-mighty, has chosen him to do His work.
The bus pulls up at the bus stop
and the doors open. The moment has come. Sycko’s hand is in his
pocket. It tightens around the switch he is holding. He knows he is
doing it for God and he smiles. The little baby outside sees his
smile and happily smiles back, a smile of innocence. Then Sycko
presses the button. The explosives wrapped around his body
detonate. People on the bus are torn to pieces, blood and bones and
flesh fly through the air. The pensioner at the front of the queue
is killed instantly. He has worked hard all his life. Now the happy
years of his retirement are ended by a holy man. The ten month old
baby boy behind him is still smiling at Sycko when a piece of
flying metal cuts his head off. His father is a widower now, though
he doesn’t know it yet. He will never take his son to the
playground now, or see his son’s first day at school or his
graduation ceremony, or all the other things he has dreamed of and
worked for. All brought to ruin by a man of God.
Violence has caught up with the
veteran. He survived a war but now he is dead, killed in the town
he fought to protect. Housewives, children, workers, clerks and the
other good people going about their daily lives, now lie about torn
to pieces, their mangled bodies all that is left of lives filled
with work, love, joy and all the other things we take for
granted.
Two years
earlier
Character is Destiny.
Heraclitus
Sycko woke up and looked at his
watch. Eight-thirty and his work started at nine. “Yea, whatever,”
he said to no one in particular. He knew his boss would be cross
with him but he didn’t care. He slowly got out of bed, got dressed
with his shirt hanging out of the trousers and left home. On the
way he stopped at a kiosk for a hotdog and coke. “Morning, Sycko,”
the girl said as she handed him his usual. “Late for work
again?”
He shrugged his shoulders, paid
and walked on. Every step he made was accompanied by a dragging
sound. He gulped down the hotdog and coke and left the empty can
standing on a letterbox. A few minutes later he entered the shop
where he worked. He glanced at his watch. “Nine fifteen, not late
really,” he mumbled.
His boss gave him a dark stare
as he slowly made his way through the shop and got his things
ready. Some customers were waiting already, impatient, wondering
whether to go shopping elsewhere in future.
“Can you do things any more
slowly?” the first customer remarked acidly.
“Yea, whatever dickhead,” Sycko
thought. One customer after another came and each one meant more
work. “Life ain’t fair,” Sycko thought. “Why do I have to be stuck
behind a counter dealing with these idiots all day long when others
have millions.”
“That’s not right, young man,”
an annoyed woman said.
“Eh…?”
“That’s not the right change
you’ve given me,” she said. “Can’t you count?”
He quickly handed out some more
coins. It wasn’t the first time that he gave the wrong change.
From across the room his boss
saw everything, his slovenly appearance, his careless attitude and
disrespect to customers. At the end of the day Sycko was fired.
He left the shop with his final
wages and lit a cigarette.
“Hey Sycko, what’s up man?”
Sycko turned to greet his friend
Judas, a short swarthy man with greasy hair, who was wearing an old
T-shirt and torn jeans as well as a pair of filthy trainers that
had the power to send the most hardened nose to flight when they
were removed from their owner’s feet.
“Life sucks, man,” Sycko said.
“There I go working my butt off for some rich swine and what do I
get as thanks?”
Judas sucked on the joint in his
mouth and blew a cloud of smoke looking at Sycko with the vacant
gaze of a man whose mind was obscured behind a thick veil of
fog.
“I get up early,” Sycko went on,
“I haven’t got time for a decent breakfast, I slave away all day,
week after week and what do I get in return from that greedy
fucker? He kicks me out. He fires me. All I have is my measly final
pay.”
Slowly an understanding of what
had happened seeped into Judas’ mind. “Yeah, life sucks, man. Come,
let’s go have a drink somewhere.” He pulled Sycko along past shops
lit brightly towards a darker area of town where sordid buildings
were home to less reputable businesses. In one such building was
Judas’ favourite haunt, a drinking den called The Jamaica Inn.
Judas pushed the door open and they entered the smoke filled
interior where customers were safe from fresh air and cleanliness.
They took seats in a dingy corner.
“Hey Charlie,” Judas called
across the room. “Two of the usual.”
Charlie nodded and mechanically
prepared the drinks. He was an old portly man with white hair and a
double chin whose real name was Charles Laughton though no one knew
or cared. Everyone called him Charlie. He brought the glasses over
and put them on the sticky table.
“Now just listen to this,
Charlie. My pal Sycko here works his butt off for some rich bugger
and what does he get? He gets fired. What do you say to that?”
Charlie shook his head in
sympathy.
“Now where’s justice, I ask you?
My pal works and works and then just like that he’s given the boot.
No warning, no hint to give him time to find a new job,
nothing.”
Charlie looked at him wearily
wondering where the conversation was taking him.
“And then,” Sycko went on, “he
finishes work and his boss tells him not to come back again. Just
gives him his final pay and shows him the door. Now what do you say
to that?”
Charlie understood. “That’s bad,
very bad, but you’ve come to the right place and the right man.
Nothing we can’t cure here. Relax and enjoy!” He turned away with a
satisfied smile. Customers with cash to spare and maybe more were
always welcome.
Sycko and Judas drank away
Sycko’s final pay and after some illicit pleasures available in
rooms upstairs they returned for more drink and smoke. It was well
past midnight when realization slowly began to dawn on Sycko that
not only had he spent all of his final pay but that they owed quite
a lot more to Charlie.
“The rest of the bill’s on you,”
Sycko said to Judas.
Judas looked at him in a drunken
stupor. “You mean you’ve got nothing left?”
Sycko nodded.
“That’s bad, man, that’s bad.
I’m flat broke.” He shook his head slowly. “Hey Charlie,” he
called. “The dosh’s all gone.”
Charlie came over. “Bill’s must
be paid,” he said sternly.
“Yeah, I know,” Judas said
wincing under Charlie’s gaze. “I didn’t know, Charlie. I thought
there was more, I mean my pal here only told me now he’d got
nothing left.”
Charlie reddened. Customers who
couldn’t pay up were troublesome and unwelcome. He went through his
mind how much they still owed. It wasn’t that much, and after all
they had spent he still stood to make quite a profit on them. He
could just let them go and keep it in the books till Judas found
some other victim. By now everyone else had left. Charlie hesitated
when suddenly the door opened. A middle-aged man came in. He was
wearing a dark suit with a blue tie that made him look curiously
out of place in The Jamaica Inn.
“Wait here,” Charlie said and
wagged his finger at the two drunken louts. “I’ll deal with you in
a little while.” He walked across to the gentleman.
“Good evening, sir. What will it
be?”
The gentleman placed his order
and when Charlie brought the desired drink he took out a wallet
brimful with money to pay.
“I am told,” the gentleman said
quietly, “I am told that there are also other, eh, services
available in your rooms upstairs.”
“Why certainly, sir, certainly,”
Charlie said with a smarmy smile. “Anything you want can be
had.”
It was his lucky night Charlie
decided. First Judas had brought a good customer and now there was
a gentleman to solve remaining problems. The sight of the wallet
had given him an excellent idea.
“Just make yourself comfortable,
sir, and enjoy your drink. I’ll make the other arrangements.” He
left the gentleman, who looked rather pleased in anticipation of
coming pleasures, and brought two more drinks over to Sycko and
Judas. “These are on the house,” he said. “Just to show that we
value our customers here, eh?”
“Why that’s awful decent of you,
Charlie,” Judas said.
“Just you two sit tight,”
Charlie said. “I’ll be back soon.”
He left the room to go upstairs
but then a thought struck him. “Now why should I share anything
with those greedy strumpets? I’ll do it all myself. And the two
louts will do anything I tell them to.”