Ten Seconds – one of my best OU assignment scores ever!

This is my latest assignment piece for A215 – tutor really liked it, and so did I, to be honest. I hope you all do, too!

Ten Seconds

The cemetery was peaceful; the November fog was enveloping the whole village and giving the large graveyard an added serenity. The sodden carpet of decaying leaves on a grassy underlay made no noise as the man made his way casually to the wooden bench at the far end. Aside from the distant hum of traffic on the main road some distance away, there was no sound, not even from the birds.

He reached the bench, and sat down. He stretched out his long, lean legs in front of him, and crossed one heavy black boot over the other, looking as if he was just there for a rest in a quiet spot. He narrowed his dark eyes and attempted to catch tiny droplets of water in his focus as the fog descended further. He shivered intermittently, despite his thick, padded coat, and flexed his stiff and slowly paling fingers to get the blood flowing.

Then, he waited.

Father Harding’s posture changed when he saw the man sitting on the bench. His shoulders sagged and his body seemed to slump forwards a little. He bowed his head, the rim of his black hat obscuring his aged face. Glancing up under his bushy grey eyebrows, he saw the man sitting up straight, watching his approach. Soon he could clearly see his large brown eyes, the unnaturally long lashes, and the gentle lines of his features which suggested some serenity and kindness, counteracting the serious expression he wore. The priest sighed, and straightened up again.

‘Father,’ said the man as he reached the bench. ‘Do you have a minute?’

The priest stopped just short of the bench. ‘Not really – I’m due at a meeting in 15 minutes. Can it wait?’ he said, shifting from foot to foot and hugging himself deeper into his thick woollen coat.

‘It’s important. I wanted to talk to you about what you said to me yesterday.’ The man’s look was steady, neutral.

The priest raised an eyebrow. ‘I thought we had said all we needed to say, son. I cannot bring you to God while you continue your life in the way you do.’ There was an unnatural harshness in the priest’s voice, which seemed amplified by the atmosphere of the darkening cemetery.

‘Well, I thought about everything you said, and this is why I need to talk to you.’ The man had spoken softly, almost coyly, as if he knew how to act to get what he wanted. ‘I wanted your advice on changing things. Im determined, Father. I won’t keep you long.’

Father Harding sighed and checked his expensive-looking silver watch. ‘Five minutes. That’s really all I can spare. Follow me.’

They entered the church through a heavy oak door, and then passed through a wood-panelled porchway. The light was poor, despite the large stained-glass windows inside the main body of the church. The pale beige stone of the walls did not reflect much light, and the candles in front of the little statue of the Virgin Mary at the far end of one of the aisles made little difference. It smelled of previously snuffed out candles, musty cloth and cheap wood polish. It did not look very much like a welcoming House of God, and the man frowned as he shivered again, his eyes trying to adjust to the gloom.

It was not a large church; perhaps a dozen pews down each side of the nave. It seemed small for the size of the village it served, but the number of people regularly attending was falling year by year, so it was of no consequence.

The altarpiece was of carved grey stone, showing saints and angels in minute detail. The man took a deep breath as he looked up at the finely sculpted framework that held six white candlesticks. An intricately moulded golden crucifix stood in the centre. As he studied the figure of Christ, he looked as if he was trying to apologise for what he was about to do.

Hearing the sigh, the priest turned, and followed the man’s gaze. He raised an eyebrow again, with a disdainful expression on his face, and walked on.

The priest began to rub his hands together as he led the man to the pews at the front of the nave. He invited him to take a seat in one, but the man stood still, both of his hands in his pockets. Father Harding glanced around, biting his dry and chapped lips, and then turned to take a seat himself. While his attention was on not tripping over the prayer cushions, he did not notice the man slip into the pew behind him, taking something from one pocket as he did so.

The man placed a strong hand on the priest’s right shoulder, preventing him from standing up again. He raised a small black handgun, showing it to the priest, and then pressed it to the side of Father Harding’s head.

The priest gulped in as much air as his lungs would take and then held his breath, his upper arms forced in tightly against his ribcage and his fists clenched. His whole body shifted up an inch, almost lifting off the hard wooden seat as he pushed up with his toes, tensing every muscle he had. But the man pushed him back down roughly, making him utter a faint squeak.

‘This will not take long, as I told you,’ said the man in a firm voice that echoed flatly around the small building. ‘I just have a question for you that I would like you to answer truthfully.’

The priest swallowed and took a deep, shuddering breath, exhaling his own fog into the cold air around him.

‘There is no need for this, son,’ he said in a scratchy, meek voice. ‘We can talk calmly about all of this. I can cancel my meeting…’

‘Don’t waste your own time trying to talk me out of doing this my way, Father. I tried to talk to you yesterday, and that didn’t work out too well, did it? Be quiet.’

Father Harding slumped a little in the seat.

‘Now – I want to find out how important God is to you. I want to know just how much you appreciate Christ dying on the cross for you.’ He paused, looking up to the golden figure of Jesus once again, with an expression that contained a little of his inner torture.

The priest’s eyes jerked sideways, his expression one of bewilderment, towards the hand that held the gun to his head. His mouth opened as if he was about to say something, but then clamped shut again, and he lapsed back into the blank stare once more.

Turning back to the priest, flickers of candlelight in his eyes adding to the intensity of his glare, the man spoke again. ‘You see, yesterday you told me that I had to change my life before you would help me. You said you had to see determination in me – a complete renunciation of my former life – before I could be welcomed into this church, as a child of God. Did you not?’

Father Harding nodded quickly.

‘I have a problem with that.’ Pressing the gun more firmly into Father Harding’s left temple, he said, ‘Did Christ not accept the robber who was being crucified next to Him? Did Christ say to the sinners who ate with Him, “I have to see evidence of you changing your life before you will join me in Heaven”?’

Father Harding squeezed his eyes shut as he felt the pressure of the weapon against his head. He again opened his mouth, the lips quivering, a droplet of spittle beginning to escape from the corner as he fought for an answer. But nothing came. He licked his lips and swallowed and then he finally spoke.

‘You have seen, O Lord; do not be silent! Oh Lord, do not be far from me.’  The man frowned as Father Harding’s voice seemed to gain strength from his own words. ‘Wake up! Bestir yourself for my defence, for my cause, my God and  my Lord – ‘

‘SHUT UP!’ the man suddenly shouted, causing the priest to jump in the seat. The gun was pressed even harder into his head. ‘I’m going to ask you just one question, and your answer will determine whether you live or die.’

Father Harding slumped in the seat and closed his eyes again.

‘Are you ready to die for your faith?’ the man asked, uttering the words slowly, deliberately, making sure the priest completely understood the implications of the question.

The priest inhaled sharply, and tears began to trickle down his pale, wrinkled skin. He opened his eyes and looked at the figure of Christ at the altar.

‘If your answer is no, I’ll let you live. If it’s yes, I’ll pull the trigger, and you can be with God. You’ve got ten seconds.’

‘Please…I -‘ Father Harding tried to look at the man but was held still by the gun at his temple, and the grip on his shoulder tightened.

‘Ten…’

The priest began to cry quietly. ‘Please…forgive me for turning you away yesterday,’ he said, but then fell silent, and continued to weep.

The man continued to count down, feeling the priest’s body shaking under his hand, watching the tears running freely down his face. The man began to tremble slightly himself, and despite taking a deep breath, tears began to seep from his widened eyes as he got closer to ‘zero’.

‘Three.’

‘For God’s sake!’

‘How appropriate. Two.’

Father Harding screwed his entire face up as if to flinch away from the shot he was dreading.

‘One.’

‘WAIT!’ Suddenly Father Harding opened his eyes and fought to be able to look at the man directly in the face, but the man held him still. ‘Please! I’m – I’m not ready!’

The man slowly closed his eyes tightly, causing more tears to run down his face. He moved the gun away from the priest’s head and used the sleeve of his coat to hastily wipe them from his  face, before Father Harding could turn and see them. He lightened the pressure slowly on Father Harding’s shoulder, hesitated, and then let go of him altogether. Standing up, he seemed to almost stagger out of the pew, his hands falling limply by his sides. There was complete silence in the church.

Father Harding turned towards the man, his face still contorted in grief and fear as the tears coursed down his cheeks. He studied the man’s face and body language, and then slowly stood up to face him. He looked questioningly at the man, as if he was expecting an explanation for all that had just happened in his own church.

The man looked deflated and beaten, with eyes were red-rimmed and tired-looking, no longer emitting the light which had been there only seconds before. He was shivering and his hands trembled. He breathed in deeply through his nose and looked up, his gaze moving slowly across the decorated, vaulted ceiling, before dropping back to Father Harding.

Father Harding stepped back a little as the man lifted the handgun. He did not point it at the priest this time, however. He simply slid back the barrel assembly to show that the chamber was empty, and ejected the magazine. He tossed the magazine to Father Harding, who almost dropped it in surprise. The priest looked at it, and saw that it, too, was empty.

‘You see, Father,’ the man said in a voice that was no longer strong or steady, ‘I came here yesterday with complete faith in you and God. You turned me away.’ His voice almost cracked altogether, and he swallowed hard.

Father Harding looked down at the floor, still weeping silently. After a few seconds he looked up again, looking resigned to his guilt.

‘I am sorry, my son…’

‘It doesn’t matter, Father,’ the man said, recovering his composure a little. ‘I still have complete faith in God. I just know now that you are not the person to tell me about him…’

The man held out his hand, and the priest returned the magazine to him without a word. The man then turned around and walked slowly away towards the door, placing the handgun and its magazine back into the pockets of his coat. As he reached the door and put his hand out to open it, he turned and gave the priest one last look.

‘I’ll pray for you, Father.’

As the man quietly closed the door behind him, the priest slowly dropped to his knees and sobbed.