The Coming Of The Lord

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Book excerpt

Chapter One

Rachel Stone was singing along with a song on Radio 2 as she washed the breakfast dishes in the kitchen sink.  It was a bright, Spring morning and she was enjoying watching the birds eating the scraps of food she’d put out on the bird table.  She pushed back hair from her eyes with a soapy, Marigold-gloved hand, leaving a wet streak on her forehead.  Drat, she thought, and reached for the dish towel to dry her face.  Rachel was a short, plump woman with a round, rosy-cheeked face, framed by soft, golden curls and she was proud that she looked young for her age.  Alan, her husband of thirty years, had left for work and she loved having this time of the day for herself.

“You’ve got a nice voice you should sing hymns in church.  Jesus would like that.”

A startled Rachel turned towards the voice and saw a large, scruffy-looking, black man standing by the kitchen door.  He looked unkempt, his coat was mud-stained and on his sockless feet were sandals.  His face had a broad, flat nose and wiry whiskers sprouted from his chin.  It took Rachel only a moment to realise that he was unfamiliar and she knew his rough, Glasgow accent with its African twang, typified a less affluent area.

“Who are you?  How did you get in here?”  She demanded.

“The front door was unlocked,” he replied, as if surprised by the question.  “Surely you expected me, lady?  You led me to your door.”

“I don’t know who you are or what you’re doing here, but I want you to leave my house, now.”

The man stood his ground and a slow smile crept over his face.  “I am the voice of one crying out in the wilderness,” he said.  “Repent your sins.  The kingdom of heaven is close at hand.”

The hairs on the back of Rachel’s neck prickled.  This man is nuts, she thought.  I’ve got to get him out of my house.

“Do you want some money?” she asked.  “I could give you ten pounds. You could get a bus or a taxi.  You can’t stay here,” she added meeting the man’s gaze.

“You are a sinner, lady, and sinners must be punished.”

“This is ridiculous,” Rachel replied, raw fear giving her voice strength.  “You will leave my house now or I’ll call the police.  Is that what you want?  Do you want me to call the police?”

“You’re going to call the police, on this telephone?”  The man’s deep voice resonated.  Then laughing, he wrenched the phone from the wall and smashed it on the floor.  “I don’t think so, lady, I don’t think so.”

Rachel was terrified.  She felt her knees go weak and she gripped the edge of the sink for support.  She began to shake, her skin felt damp with perspiration, tears welled up in her eyes and her teeth chattered.

“Take whatever you want and leave me alone.  My husband will be home any minute.  He’s just gone to the shops.”

“Oh dear, lady, a liar and a thief, do you think the Lord will forgive you?  I know your man is at work.  I saw him leave in the car.”

He’s mixing me up with someone else Rachel thought.  He must be.  She said to him, “I’m not a thief.  I’ve never stolen anything in my life.”

“You took the money,” he insisted.  “I saw you.  You are a thief.  The money wasn’t yours but you put it in your pocket.  It’s still there.”

“What are you talking about?  What money?  I don’t have your money.  You must be mistaking me for another person.”

“No,” the man answered vehemently.  “You took the money.  I saw you.”

Rachel was scared.  She couldn’t get past the man to escape from the kitchen.  “What’s your name?” She asked trying a different tactic.  She wanted to distract him.

“You know me, lady,” he said.  “I am John, John the Baptist.  I put the coin on the step in front of your door.  The coin you picked up and placed in your pocket.”

A memory of finding a coin when she went to put out the bin earlier slowly came back to her.  She’d put it in her apron pocket and thought no more about it.  No normal person would leave a coin lying on the doorstep.  Rachel stared at the man, his hands were clasped in front of him and he was praying.

“Accept this sinner, Oh Lord.  She is ready to repent.”  John turned to Rachel.  “I am announcing the coming of Jesus.  Accept him into your heart.  Are you ready to meet him?  Are you prepared to meet our Lord?”

Oh, God, she thought, I’m trapped in my house with a maniac. She wanted to shout for help, but the words were frozen in her throat and she could barely swallow.

As John stepped forward towards Rachel, he reached over to the worktop and lifted a knife from the block.  His eyes gleamed with madness.

“No,” Rachel shrieked finding her voice as she scrambled about in the sink trying to grasp something, anything, to defend herself.  “Keep away from me.  Don’t touch me.”

Unblinking, John strode over to her.  The large man towered above her.  Reaching out, he grabbed her by the hair.  A sour stench engulfed her and she could taste his body odour.  With his large, meaty hand, John forced her face into the sink of soapy water and held her down.

“I baptise you in the name of the Father,” he began.

Rachel spluttered and struggled against his grip.

“The Son.”

Hot urine ran down her legs as she desperately clawed at the air.

“And the Holy Spirit.”

Finally, John dragged the drowning woman’s face out of the sink.

Rachel coughed and choked, mucus streamed from her nose.

Then, as John held her face inches from the radio, she heard a newsreader say, “Do not approach this man.  John Baptiste escaped from a high security hospital…...”

Rachel gazed into the protruding eyes of the madman and she realised there was no escape.  A terrible sadness engulfed her.  She knew she was going to die.

“Gather this lost sheep back into the fold, Father.  Forgive her, Oh Lord.  She knows not what she’s done.”

Terror stricken and powerless to move only Rachel’s eyes could follow the curve of his arm, as the knife plunged into her throat.  As she gurgled her last breath the crackling voice of the news reader stressed, “I repeat, do not approach this man.”

John slowly lowered Rachel’s body.  He was exhausted, completely spent.  He sat on the kitchen floor beside her, bent his knees and held his head in his hands.  Gradually, the tight band that encircled his skull eased and he relaxed.  It had been several days since he’d stopped taking his medication.  Days of worry and stress, wondering how he would save this soul for the Lord.  The coin on the step was a brainwave, a perfect test for a sinner, and he hadn’t been disappointed.  Now this woman was at peace and he could rest a while.  He shut his eyes.

***

It had been over twenty-five years since John had been at this house.  He’d been about eight or nine years old when his mother had said they were going to visit Granny.  He remembered clearly walking down the avenue and looking into the pretty gardens.  The street had been incredibly clean, not at all like the area he’d called home.  The white painted stonework of the bungalows reflected the sunlight and it had dazzled him.  In his mind, there was a vision of his mother smiling.  It had been a rare occurrence.  Her skinny frame had been wrapped in a threadbare cardigan and her poor battered face was full of hope.  She had rung the doorbell and they’d waited, listening, as footsteps approached, but instead of the welcome they’d expected, they were faced with Granny’s stern, unrelenting coldness.  This impression had shocked John and it had stayed with him all his life.

“Take your black, bastard son and leave here,” the older woman had said.  “You made your bed now you can lie in it.  You’ve brought me nothing but shame and hurt.”

“My son is not a bastard,” John’s mother had hissed.  “I’m married.  How dare you say that?  He’s your grandson and he’s just a wee boy.  Have you no compassion?  Look at my face Mum.  Look at me.  He’ll kill me if I go back to him.  He’ll kill me.”

The older woman stood perfectly still with her arms crossed obstinately over her chest.  She blocked the doorway with her body.

“He’s not my Grandson.  I don’t have any coloured people in my family.  I warned you when you left that I wouldn’t have you back.  Now go away before I call the police.  I don’t want you here.”

“But Mum,” John’s mother beseeched, “Look at me.  I’m begging you.  Help me Mum or he’ll kill me.”

John’s Grandmother retreated inside the house and slammed the door shut.  His mother sank down onto the step and sobbed.

“Mum, Mum, what’s wrong?  Who’s going to kill you?”  Alarmed, John tugged at his mother’s sleeve.

She raised her head, her face a picture of defeat and stared at her son with sad eyes.

“We’re going home now, John.  Don’t worry, everything will be okay.”

John’s mother took him by the hand and they walked down the path.  She carefully shut the gate.  Every so often, as they walked along the road, they glanced back at Granny’s house.  It was the last time his mother would ever see it.

John didn’t know if the dead woman by his side was his Grandmother, he couldn’t recollect what she looked like after all these years, but he did remember the street and the house.  He could only hope and pray that it was her and she was finally reunited with his mother in heaven.

John’s head began to nod with tiredness.  He slapped his face hard with his open palms because he couldn’t risk falling asleep and being discovered here.  Holding onto the work top he hauled himself up and rocked slightly on his feet.  There was blood everywhere.  Great spatters of arterial blood had sprayed the walls and puddles of the sticky redness covered the floor.  John distractedly dipped his fingers in a pool on the worktop and began to draw crosses on the wall behind him.  He prayed.

After a while he stripped off his bloody garments, dropping them onto the floor, and went in search of a bathroom.  Once showered, John took a razor from the medicine cabinet and shaved off his hair and his whiskers.  Then he wrapped himself in a towelling robe, which was hanging from a hook on the door, and began searching the house for clothes and anything else he could use.  In the smaller bedroom, he found a sweatshirt and sweatpants hanging in the wardrobe.  They obviously belonged to a big man because they fit John like a glove.  He liked the feel of the soft fabric against his skin.  He also helped himself to a Regatta jacket, but the footwear, which would have completed the outfit, were a size too big and his feet slipped out of them when he tried to walk.  Next, John searched the master bedroom and was delighted to find Adidas trainers discarded on the floor beside the window. They weren’t the same quality as the Reeboks he’d rejected, but they did fit him, so the Reeboks would have to do.  He pulled out the drawers from the chest and selected a few pairs of socks and some underpants.  Lifting a holdall from the top of the wardrobe, John quickly filled it with his loot before returning downstairs.

He hadn’t noticed Rachel’s book, a romantic novel, which lay on the bedside cabinet or her reading glasses, or the pretty little knick-knacks which decorated the room, or Alan’s dish where he threw his loose change when he undressed at night.  None of the trappings of normal family life touched John’s consciousness because he’d no experience of it.

The house was covered in blood.  It had been trampled through the hall and up the stairs.  John didn’t want to spoil his new clothes, but he needed to find money because he’d almost used up what he had.  Searching the living room, he discovered Rachel’s handbag lying on the sofa.  Tipping the contents onto the coffee table, John took Rachel’s wallet and placed it in his jacket pocket.  Then he found her mobile phone and quickly located her bank card PIN number.  The nurse he’d killed when he’d escaped from the hospital had kept her PIN number on her phone.  How careless, he thought.

John slung the holdall over his shoulder.  He lifted a pair of Ray Ban sunglasses off the hall table and put them on, stopping only for a moment to admire his reflection in the mirror, before leaving the house the same way he’d entered three hours earlier.  He carefully closed the door and whistled to himself as he made his way along the pretty avenue with its perfect gardens and white painted bungalows.   John felt free, his step had a spring in it and he broke into song. 

“Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord,” his deep voice resonated.  “His truth is marching on.”