Peripheral Vision by Paddy O'Reilly

drop of rain drips onto her cheek, then she realises it is dribble from Jesus’ mouth. Tears sting her eyes.
    â€˜Sorry, sister, sorry.’ The hard skin of his hand scrapes once across her cheek, trying to brush away his spit.
    A car pulls up beside them. A woman gets out of the passenger side. She leans back in and kisses the driver on the cheek, locks the door button and slams the door. As the car drives away she waves and adjusts her handbag on her shoulder. When she turns around Anna calls to her.
    â€˜Excuse me, I …’
    The woman stares. Anna looks across at Jesus standing on the other side of her schoolbag and thinks of children at assembly.
    â€˜Are you okay?’ the woman says.
    â€˜Yes, but …’
    â€˜I am the Lord Jesus Christ,’ Jesus roars.
    â€˜Yeah, sure you are, mate,’ the woman says. She is older than Anna first thought. ‘Come and walk with me, love.’ She stretches out her hand.
    Anna stands there with Jesus making soft grunting sounds beside her and her books scattered on the footpath and all she can hear banging on in her head is her mother’s voice. ‘It’s not that I think people who call you “love” are common, like my mother used to say.’ And her father commenting from the lounge room chair as usual. ‘That’s your mother, the champagne socialist. As long as they’re not in her backyard.’
    She rubs her face with both hands trying to wipe the images of home from her mind. As if he has been waiting for her eyes to be covered, Jesus clamps his hand around her arm, crushing her school blazer with whatever he has on his filthy hands.
    â€˜Begone, Satan!’ he shouts at the woman and breaks into a coughing fit. His hand stays welded to Anna’s arm. His whole body shakes from the coughing and Anna begins to shake too.
    â€˜Oh shit,’ the woman says. Cars stop and start in a jerky stream behind her as the intersection lights change.
    â€˜I was going to give him a dollar,’ Anna whispers, even though Jesus can hear everything.
    The woman nods. ‘Listen,’ she says in a gentle voice to Jesus. ‘I’ve got ten dollars.’
    â€˜Thy money perish with thee!’ Jesus thunders, his other hand grasping the air as if he’s trying to pull down the sky. ‘The gift of God cannot be purchased with money.’
    Anna’s notebook has blown open and Jesus’ foot is grinding into the page where she’s written her night’s homework. She needs to go to the toilet. It’s dark and the three of them stand in a pool of yellow light from the streetlight above. Spit glistens on Jesus’ lips.
    In the distance the windows of another tram appear like a magic lantern. Jesus bends down and pulls the chemistry textbook from her bag. He brandishes the fat book at the woman before he lets go of Anna’s arm and throws back his head.
    â€˜Father, why have you forsaken me?’ he wails to the sky.
    He draws back his arm and hurls the book into the traffic. It slams onto the road in front of a taxi, which brakes and skids. The car behind honks long and loud until both accelerate away, the one behind still honking and the sound receding like a siren. Jesus begins to mutter what sound like verses from the Bible.
    She remembers the E in her blazer pocket and wishes she’d taken it before. It would be kicking in now. She’d be feeling warmer, and her teeth would be starting to clench with that delicious sensation of tightness. The gold of the lights would be more golden. A wash of happiness would spread through her body. If the E had already warmed her body, she would reach over and take Jesus’ hand and say, ‘It’s all right, Jesus.We care about you.’ She would love this woman who’s stopped to help her, and she would love Jesus, even though he stinks. She would twirl around on the black footpath and sniff a great breath of the sour night air