Sister Mary Joseph pulled the club out of Father O Malley’s neck. Blood was everywhere. His body slumped on top of his old acquaintance, they often “worked” together, now there were dead together. Still she felt nothing, no joy no relief, nothing.
She stood still, surveying the gentle carnage. The red stained the brilliant white of the alter cloths and the cold grey of the granite steps as it poured endlessly down. There were 10 pints of blood in a human and it covered an incredible surface area. These two were barely human though, undeserving of the word, monsters was more suitable, and they deserved death.
Pulling a cigarette from her sleeve she lit it up and drew a long slow pull of the sweet smoke. Her eyes moving as she did, her mind calculating her next move. It had to be fast. She didn’t have long. She exhaled through her nose and dropped the cigarette casually to the floor, half-finished after one puff, she crushed it out under her black hobnailed boot.
Her club was still dripping with globs of blood. She dipped it into the pool that was growing at the bottom of the altar steps. Swung it around and started writing on the large white pillar that was by the side of the aisle. Drips and drops of blood went everywhere; it was a blood spatter experts dream, she thought, or nightmare, depends how close to the edge they are. Maybe that was what the difference was, between the bad people that do bad things and the bad people that just think about it. The ones that do the bad things, they are concerned about how they see the world. The ones that just think about it, they are more concerned about how the world sees them. That fear of being judged or caught or punished is what keeps them in line, stops them doing the things that lurk in the darkness of their minds.
Some people, she thought, as she looked again at the piles of flesh that were once men, some people couldn’t hold it down though, couldn’t suppress that darkness. These were the people that made nightmares for the rest of us. She suppressed the urge to spit on the vile bodies of the pair as she dipped the end of her club again into the puddle of blood. It was already starting to congeal around the edges and was stickier now. She dragged the club across the pillar again. She felt like a Japanese calligraphy artist, using all the strength in her wrist to steady the club as she wrote with a flourish.
In the still and quiet of the lifeless church she always felt her peace. When she was alone in the house of God she could truly believe. It was a rare feeling and a welcome one. She knew a higher power was controlling her. Her actions and her thoughts were her own but she was doing God’s work.
She finished writing and stood leaning on her club for a moment while she surveyed her work. It should have been satisfying, like a labourer after a hard day looking back and feeling proud of what was achieved while simultaneously glad it was over. Instead she felt nothing. She removed another cigarette from the recesses of her sleeve and lit it up. Calmly cleaning her club with a perfect white handkerchief that she found somewhere about her person. She seemed to have an endless supply of them. Quietly polishing the nails and barbs that protruded from her club she again looked over what she had done today. Still no joy or guilt, no feelings at all, feelings had been taken away from her a long time ago.
In the distance, but certainly heading this way, Sister Mary Joseph didn’t doubt that at all, she had called them. She finished polishing the club, took a final drag of the cigarette and pinged it behind the altar towards the anteroom, where the cans of petrol she had brought and poured around for the very purpose quickly caught. The majority of the old stone building would be unharmed. But the small wooden anteroom would definitely go up. She glanced at it again. Watching the handle as it shook violently. He would start screaming any second.
“Sister Mary! Please! Have Mercy!” The voice shouted.
“Only God can give you mercy now.” She said quietly, maybe to herself.
The screaming started. The flames climbed higher and harder. The door shook as boots on the other side kicked. There was no point. That was the first thing she had checked. The door would hold.
The sirens grew louder.
She dropped the white handkerchief into the coagulated puddle by her feet as she swung the club over her shoulder and strode out the side door.
One word was painted red on the pillar.