1.
I was in the abbey when I realised I’d have to burn for my sins.
If you go round the cloisters and have a look at all the stained glass windows, you'll find one of a man being burned to death, and he looks a bit like me, if I was white and had a beard. And even if he didn't look like me, I straight away knew all about him. I didn't know who he was or what he'd done, but I knew he was paying for something he’d done, and that he’d had no choice but to do that thing. I could see myself going the same way. And soon.
Saying that, I hoped I was wrong.
Getting burned to death seemed a bit harsh.
I turned, spotting someone come round the corner. I knew this was no abbey-going punter. No punter moves with that kind of purpose, eyes burning a hole in your skull from fifty yards. The cloisters are a big, square corridor surrounding a nice garden that you can look at through the windows but not go in, and I was stood halfway along one side. Behind me was the gift shop and the main part of the abbey. Habit had me making a mental note of that in case things turned serious and I needed a way out. But I knew I wouldn’t be needing that mental note. I had hope, didn’t I? Things could be sorted.
Burnings could be avoided.
‘Where’s Graven?’ I said to the oncoming ned with his chin up, arms swinging a foot adrift of his hips, bigging himself up big-time. He was all of five foot five and built like a variety-sized box of cornflakes. Twenty yards shy and he reaches inside his hoodie. Not a good sign.
Things weren’t just turning serious, they were starting out that way.
House of God and all.
He was five paces away now and I could make out his eyes, but they weren’t on me like those of a good blade boy should be. Or even a shit one, really. It was around then I came to wonder if I might be wrong, if this one here was nothing to do with Graven’s dirty workings. Could be he was Mr Average, headed for the gift shop, after a nice key-ring or an embossed prayer book. Especially with his hand still in his top and not producing the stainless. Mind you, does Mr Average keep his hood up inside the house of God? I don’t know, but I had mine up.
I had good reason to.
He pulled alongside, the hand coming out now. This is where it got a bit odd for me. Meaning unusual things started going on up there in my head. I mean, your first instinct is self-preservation, right? Someone’s about to flash a tool, you either show him your heels or toss him a pre-emptive set of knuckles. This had been my way for as long as I could remember.
But I got a different thing occurring to me this time. It occurred to me - with the sun bursting out behind my head, flashing the colours of that burning man across the ned’s grey Diesel with a big black 50 across the front - that I could always just take it. I could let him do what he’d been sent to do.
Why prolong the inevitable? I mean, what is life, really and truly?
One long trail of shit stretching day to day.
Until you die.
That’s why I closed my eyes. Serious, that is the reason. Bring it on, I was thinking, send me to the big sleep from which no bastard awakes. And when I opened them again I saw an angel approaching, coming down a long tunnel. Or maybe it was a leery-eyed vicar walking down the cloisters in my direction, I realised after blinking a few times. I now had a letter under my arm. A sealed envelope, brown smudges all over one corner and some damp on another. I sniffed it.
Soil.
The ned was nowhere. Common sense said he was in the main abbey, hiking sharpish for the exit after doing his drop-off. Which meant he was actually in the gift shop, because I knew how his sort operated and it wasn’t via common sense. I went in there, stuffing the letter down my arse pocket where it belonged. He was browsing your more expensive class of gift down the far aisle, where the old dear at the counter couldn’t clock him. I yanked his hood down and swung him back, sending him
I was in the abbey when I realised I’d have to burn for my sins.
If you go round the cloisters and have a look at all the stained glass windows, you'll find one of a man being burned to death, and he looks a bit like me, if I was white and had a beard. And even if he didn't look like me, I straight away knew all about him. I didn't know who he was or what he'd done, but I knew he was paying for something he’d done, and that he’d had no choice but to do that thing. I could see myself going the same way. And soon.
Saying that, I hoped I was wrong.
Getting burned to death seemed a bit harsh.
I turned, spotting someone come round the corner. I knew this was no abbey-going punter. No punter moves with that kind of purpose, eyes burning a hole in your skull from fifty yards. The cloisters are a big, square corridor surrounding a nice garden that you can look at through the windows but not go in, and I was stood halfway along one side. Behind me was the gift shop and the main part of the abbey. Habit had me making a mental note of that in case things turned serious and I needed a way out. But I knew I wouldn’t be needing that mental note. I had hope, didn’t I? Things could be sorted.
Burnings could be avoided.
‘Where’s Graven?’ I said to the oncoming ned with his chin up, arms swinging a foot adrift of his hips, bigging himself up big-time. He was all of five foot five and built like a variety-sized box of cornflakes. Twenty yards shy and he reaches inside his hoodie. Not a good sign.
Things weren’t just turning serious, they were starting out that way.
House of God and all.
He was five paces away now and I could make out his eyes, but they weren’t on me like those of a good blade boy should be. Or even a shit one, really. It was around then I came to wonder if I might be wrong, if this one here was nothing to do with Graven’s dirty workings. Could be he was Mr Average, headed for the gift shop, after a nice key-ring or an embossed prayer book. Especially with his hand still in his top and not producing the stainless. Mind you, does Mr Average keep his hood up inside the house of God? I don’t know, but I had mine up.
I had good reason to.
He pulled alongside, the hand coming out now. This is where it got a bit odd for me. Meaning unusual things started going on up there in my head. I mean, your first instinct is self-preservation, right? Someone’s about to flash a tool, you either show him your heels or toss him a pre-emptive set of knuckles. This had been my way for as long as I could remember.
But I got a different thing occurring to me this time. It occurred to me - with the sun bursting out behind my head, flashing the colours of that burning man across the ned’s grey Diesel with a big black 50 across the front - that I could always just take it. I could let him do what he’d been sent to do.
Why prolong the inevitable? I mean, what is life, really and truly?
One long trail of shit stretching day to day.
Until you die.
That’s why I closed my eyes. Serious, that is the reason. Bring it on, I was thinking, send me to the big sleep from which no bastard awakes. And when I opened them again I saw an angel approaching, coming down a long tunnel. Or maybe it was a leery-eyed vicar walking down the cloisters in my direction, I realised after blinking a few times. I now had a letter under my arm. A sealed envelope, brown smudges all over one corner and some damp on another. I sniffed it.
Soil.
The ned was nowhere. Common sense said he was in the main abbey, hiking sharpish for the exit after doing his drop-off. Which meant he was actually in the gift shop, because I knew how his sort operated and it wasn’t via common sense. I went in there, stuffing the letter down my arse pocket where it belonged. He was browsing your more expensive class of gift down the far aisle, where the old dear at the counter couldn’t clock him. I yanked his hood down and swung him back, sending him
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