Charlotte Betts

 

Two minutes and he’d get up. Ezekiel burrowed back into his sleeping bag, which was a degree or two warmer than the glacial air under the bridge. The healing wounds on his back itched and throbbed and he wished he was dead. Overhead, the motorway continued its ceaseless rumble through the early dawn, the rhythm broken only by a lorry going ker-thump, ker-thump as it rolled over the expansion joints.

            The others still slept, huddled into their greasy overcoats and sleeping bags; the more fortunate housed in cardboard cartons or curled up on newspaper mattresses. Mad Paddy O’Shea flailed an arm in restless sleep and his old dog lifted her shaggy head to stare at her master for a moment before settling down again with a sigh.

            Ezekiel shivered as he pulled his tattered parka tight around his aching limbs and the hood up over his head. The night shift was always the worst but at least he didn’t have far to go. Wearily, he dragged himself up the embankment until he was standing at the edge of the motorway, waiting.

He narrowed his eyes as the headlights of each car approached, passed and then sped away, sucking at his clothing in its slipstream. Then he saw it; a red Porsche, racing towards him. As he knew it would, it began to drift across the carriageway, veering towards the central reservation. Bracing himself for the inevitable, he watched it spin out of control and smash through the barrier with an ear-splitting explosion of twisted metal and broken glass. The oncoming lorry didn’t have a chance in Hell of avoiding it.

            By the time Ezekiel reached the Porsche, two other cars had skidded on the icy road and impaled themselves upon the wreckage. Better get it over with. He had four on his list. First was the driver of the Porsche. Really, dying was too good for him. It wasn’t the first time he’d caused a drink/drive accident but it was the first time he’d murdered a young woman and her unborn child. At least he’d never do it again. Ezekiel pulled open the door and bent over the driver. He wrinkled his nose at the sour reek of whisky vomit.

Bemused, the driver stared at him, blood trickling into his eyes from a ragged head wound. “What... what happened?”

“Andrew Martin, you have caused the death of four people, three of them innocent.”

“What?”

“You are the fourth.” Ezekiel reached out and touched Andrew’s forehead and then threw back his hood and leered at him. He rather enjoyed that.

The man lifted an arm over his eyes and screamed. Then he was silent.

Ezekiel caught sight of his reflection in the driver’s mirror and grimaced. No wonder he’d screamed. He wiped away a trickle of blood from the jagged wound that now crossed his own skull. He turned to the mangled Fiat. Petrol fumes shimmered in the air.

The driver’s door had burst open. She was breathing in shallow gasps, her abdomen crushed by the steering wheel. Blood pumped out from the mangled remains of her legs.

“It’s all right, sweetheart,” he said. “I’m here now.”

“Help me!” she whispered. “I’m pregnant.”

“Don’t you worry about your baby.” He smoothed the soft hair off her brow. “Look at me now, Miranda.”

She looked into his eyes and the fear and pain left her face. “My baby?” she mouthed.

“He’s going with you. Go in peace.” How he envied her as he gently touched her forehead.

She gave a little sigh and they were gone.

Ezekiel felt a small glow of satisfaction in spite of the sudden, excruciating pain in his legs. Now she would never have to suffer the horror of being trapped in a burning car with the flesh melting off her face or to see her child taunted because his mother looked like a living nightmare.

The driver of the lorry had tumbled down from his cab and was staggering about the wreckage, moaning.

“All right, mate?” asked Ezekiel.

“Is she dead?”

Ezekiel nodded. “Merciful release.”

“Oh my God! I didn’t have a chance.” The driver wiped his mouth on the back of his shaking hand. “I didn’t have a chance! Suddenly he was there, coming at me through the barrier!” He looked again at Miranda’s lifeless body and burst into wracking sobs. “Oh God! What have I done?”  

Ezekiel caught hold of his arm. “Dave, it isn’t your fault.”

“Course it’s my bloody fault!” Dave shook off Ezekiel’s hand and slammed his fist onto the crushed bonnet of the Fiat.

Time was running out. “Dave, listen to me! It wasn’t your fault. Don’t worry about it any more.” He reached out with his forefinger, the nail thickened and yellow with age and gently touched him on the chest.

Dave’s eyes widened and he clutched at his heart. “Oh!” he said. Then he crumpled to the ground.

Another merciful release. Dave and his family would be saved from a lifetime of depression, nightmares and alcoholism. But now time had run out. The pain down Ezekiel’s left arm became crippling. Then his heart went into a spasm. He knew there was no escape but he still tried to run away.

Too late. There was a whoomp as the Fiat exploded into flames. The searing blast knocked him flat onto his back and ignited his clothes. Screaming, he tore at his burning hood but the nylon melted into his scull. He could smell roasting flesh. Surely, this time, he couldn’t survive such terrible agony? Mercifully, he lost consciousness.

 

 

Daylight pricked at his blistered eyelids and pain marched over him in like an invading army. Gradually he became aware of his surroundings. A grimy window with broken glass and torn curtains. Graffiti on the walls. A lumpy mattress beneath him. And a terrible rotting smell that, from past experience, he knew was himself.

“Bad, is it?”

Painfully, Ezekiel turned his head. “Peter?”

“Who else?” Peter sat on his haunches on the filthy floor of the squat, a wide smile on his face. A black face this time.

“Come to torment me again?”

The big man spread his hands, pink side up. “Now, is that nice, Zeke? After I dragged you outta the fire and all?”

“Why couldn’t you have left me to die?” begged Ezekiel.

“Against the Rules, man.”

“I’m sick to death of the Rules.”

“Shoulda thoughta that before. Besides, I gotta assignment for you.”

“You’re joking! Have you looked at me?” Ezekiel lifted his arm and ribbons of dead skin fell away from his char-grilled flesh.

“Don’t whine, man. Anyways, you’re mending.”

It was true. As Ezekiel watched, new skin was forming. But he knew that he’d suffer the pain for weeks. There was always pain. He turned his face to the wall.

“Time to get your lazy butt outta here!”

“I can’t! Peter, I’m begging you…”

“What?”

“I can’t do it any more. I shouldn’t have this terrible power.”

“Nope. But you took it.”

“I didn’t know then what it would mean.”

“You murdered a man, Zeke. Planned it for months. And all because you lusted after his woman.”

“It was millennia ago but his face still haunts my dreams,” whispered Ezekiel.

“Justice, man.”

“Will you never forgive me and let me die?” Oh, how he yearned for death; a cessation of all pain, guilt and discord!

“Rule one: no absolution without atonement.”

“I am truly sorry for what I did!”

“Not sorry enough, man.” Peter took a small notebook from inside his leather jacket. For just a fraction of a second the squat was illuminated with an iridescent glow so bright and beautiful that it made Ezekiel whimper. “Gotta get you on a train. Trouble’s a-brewing.”

 

 

The clamour under the great arched glass roof of the station shimmered and hummed in Ezekiel’s ears. He walked carefully, the burns on his face and arms tormenting him with every movement. His stomach heaved at the pervasive stench of hamburger. Peter was right; trouble was brewing. There was a gathering unease in the air, like a boil waiting to burst.

People milled about, sipping stewed coffee from plastic cups. A pair of lovers engaged in a vicious argument, unconsciously spurred on by the brooding tension in the atmosphere. A chattering horde of school children swarmed onto the concourse, colonising the seating and cheeking their teachers who attempted to keep some sort of order with raised voices and headcounts. An elderly woman, sitting on a nearby bench with her bag planted firmly on her knees, caught his eye. Her mouth fell open and her face blanched. She knew him for what he was. He put his fingers to his lips and shook his head. “It’s not your time yet,” he mouthed and watched helplessly as she crumpled into hysterics.

Ezekiel pulled his hood tightly around his face and turned away, scanning the crowd for the source of his disquiet. On the other side of the concourse he spied two figures he recognised. Dressed like himself in hooded parkas, they leaned against a wall eyeing the throng. One of them nodded at him and he raised a hand in recognition. It was going to be an even bigger event than he’d expected if Peter had sent additional conscripts. As it was, he had sixteen deaths on his own list. Peter hadn’t told him what was to happen this time. A derailment or crash, probably.

The letters on the departures board flickered and settled into a new pattern. There was a rustling amongst the gathering and then a rush towards platform three. It was time. Ezekiel was swept along with them, like flotsam on a wave. A young man wearing a rucksack barged into him, frowning as Ezekiel gasped in pain. Then he was gone, carried off by the tide.

There were no seats left by the time Ezekiel made it onto the train. The school kids had taken over half the carriage and bounced up and down in excitement, already eating their packed lunches. They were seemingly unaffected by the ominous tension that made Ezekiel shiver with foreboding. He stared at the passengers one by one, searching for something out of kilter. The train lurched and began to move. Two of the teachers were having an animated discussion, she with sidelong glances and he taking the opportunity to touch her hand as often as possible. There was a man talking loudly into his mobile phone, a couple of sullen teenagers plugged into their iPods’ and an elderly gentleman dozing with the paper over his face. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Then Ezekiel saw him. It was the youth with the rucksack who had barged into him. He sat in the centre of the carriage next to the school party. His eyes were closed and his thin Arab face was tense while his lips moved as if in silent prayer. The rucksack was resting on his knees and he held it so tightly that his knuckles were white.

Ezekiel jumped as someone touched his knee. It was one of the school children; a girl of six or seven, staring at him with a concerned expression. “Your poor face! Have you hurt yourself?”

“I burnt it.”

“Does it hurt?”

He shook his head, pulling his hood down further, not wanting to frighten her.

She held out a packet of crisps. “Want one? Go on! It’s cheese and onion.” Her eyes were a clear blue and she had a scattering of freckles across her nose. One of her front teeth was missing.

He took a crisp, anxious not to disappoint her. “Thank you, Zoe.” Fool! He hadn’t meant to use her name until he came to tick her off his list. But she only smiled again and turned back to her friends.

Covertly, he watched them. Fourteen of the children were eating their last meal. Jug-eared Toby would never grow up to become a barrister, red-haired Sophie would no longer save thousands of lives as a heart surgeon, Jack would never achieve his ambition of becoming a writer and Zoe, well, Zoe would no longer bring sunshine into the lives of all those she met. He’d make it as easy as possible for them all but The Great Plan didn’t seem right. Not right at all. Depression settled heavily upon his shoulders.

The door at the end of the carriage hissed open and Peter and the other two conscripts entered. Peter walked towards him, his dreadlocks swaying with the motion of the train. He stopped next to Ezekiel. “Ready?”

“Don’t make me do this!” Ezekiel caught hold of his arm. “Please!”

“Can’t change it, Zeke. It’s The Great Plan.”

“The Great Plan stinks!”

“Are you questioning Him?”

Ezekiel considered. “Actually, I think I am.”

Peter drew his breath in sharply. “Dangerous ground! And anyways, there ain’t time to submit the paperwork.”

“I don’t want to take life any more. It sickens me.”

“Shoulda thoughta that. Remember? No absolution without atonement. Hey, lookit!” He nodded his head at the youth with the rucksack, who was scrabbling at the clasps.

Ezekiel could almost feel the tension rolling off the young man. It had to be him.

The youth swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. Suddenly he thrust himself to his feet. “You shall all die for your sins!” He faltered, waiting for everyone’s attention. “You must all die!” he shouted.

The two teachers stopped their flirtation and eyed him uneasily. The elderly man took the newspaper off his face and frowned before closing his eyes again. Two of the little girls giggled, heads together.

“Your society is sick, degenerate! Your women are whores!” That got their attention. He held his fist high and it was then that Ezekiel saw the grenade. A woman screamed.

 Swaying from side to side, the youth pulled the pin from the grenade and began to chant.

“It’s time!” Peter whispered.

The boil was about to burst. “I can’t watch him murder the children!” said Ezekiel, desperation boiling up inside him.

“It’s part of The Great Plan.”

“Fuck The Great Plan!” yelled Ezekiel. He summoned all his energy and launched himself at the youth. There was a loud cruumph! and his world detonated in an explosion of pain.

Next thing he knew, Peter was bending over him while the children screamed and sobbed. But they were all alive! He glanced down. His legs were gone and his intestines were spread all over the carriage. What was left of the youth lay beneath him.  “I saved the children,” he murmured.

“You broke the Rules, man.” Peter smiled. “But I guess your action counts as atonement.”

Through his agony, Ezekiel sensed a shaft of hope. “Will I be forgiven?”

Saint Peter reached out and touched Ezekiel on the forehead. “Guess so. Your punishment is over. Go gently into sleep now.” He pulled aside his leather jacket and the dazzling celestial light welcomed Ezekiel into the deep peace of eternal oblivion.