The Clergyman

You take a deep breath. You remove a handkerchief from your trouser pocket. You wipe the gun with the handkerchief. You place the gun in the still warm hand of the dead man. You curl his still warm fingers around the gun. You place his still warm index finger around the trigger. You take care not to touch the gun again. You step back. You wipe his blood from your face with the handkerchief. You roll the handkerchief into a ball and stuff it back into your pocket. You walk over to the tape recorder. You press Stop. You press Eject. You remove a cassette tape from the machine. You put the tape into the pocket of your overcoat. You walk towards the door, past the gothic ephemera, the metal skulls, the bones, past the Sailor Jerry posters, past the shelves of classical CDs, past the shelves of inks, past the framed and signed photographs of celebrity clients gone by, past the metal sign advertising Vincent Motorcycles, past the blood, the red, red blood. You open the door with your hand protected by your coat cuff. You step out into the dark, immoral night. You mutter under your breath.

‘I will be his God, and he shall be my son. But the fearful, and unbelieving, and the abominable, and murderers, and whoremongers, and sorcerers, and idolaters, and all liars, shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone: which is the second death.’

Later, at home, you place the cassette tape into a metal dish. You fetch a bottle of lighter fluid and you pour it over the cassette. You strike a match and drop it into the metal dish.