Safe in the arms of Jesus 3

IV

‘It appears that you have had something of a brutal intrusion into your day.’

The large, shabby figure of Rev Bryan Howe, strode towards Graham with a walk that came somewhere from the hips and appeared to involve no bending of the knees.  Threads of grey hair trailed behind him, and globules of sweat had formed on his temples with the effort of walking in the sun.

‘Bryan, I really am terribly sorry – we said ten, did we? I got distracted. Anyhow, you’re here.’

‘Well I am most keen to see you and hear tell of the progress of your labours in the Lord’s vineyard.’

Bryan’s use of the pious cliché was fully aware of itself but it was not said sardonically. It was just there.

‘But that shall have to wait I suppose. It has transpired that this poor fellow has expired, no? Detective, what do you suppose has happened to this poor fellow?’

‘And you are -?’

‘Oh, sorry detective, this is Bryan Howe, a friend of mine. Actually, former teacher from my college days’.

‘Well, the poor bastard’s taken a blow to the head and that’s done for him well and truly. It hasn’t happened as he hit the ground, so I don’t think it is a brawl gone wrong. I can’t imagine he could have done it to himself. So it’s looking like foul play, I’d say. Big bloke that that – probably a bit slow moving, but you’d want to take him by surprise if you were trying to kill him. Probably shouldn’t say any more, but you gents are men of the cloth after all – I am sure I can trust youse guys.’

His phone rang, he raised an eyebrow of apology and turned away to talk.

Bryan Howe had a look of immense concentration on his face. Graham thought for a minute that he looked positively pleased.

‘There’s a calculation here. But also, anger. Rage in its purest form, allowed to simmer like a pot rattling on the stove, then released in an explosion of free action. The true soul, as Aquinas might have thought of it, expressed through the body’s action. This was someone’s deepest disquiet of the soul for a very long time. And yet – ‘

The spot of spittle that gathered on Bryan’s bottom lip as he spoke had started to build up.

‘And yet – they were able, it seems to focus all their energy into the one blow and refrain from any more. You hear of the victim of multiple stab wounds – seventy or eighty sometimes – and you think: why, there was a rage that could not be contained until it was spent. But here? No. Here was one singular, remarkable crack on the skull, enough to do for a man in mid-life. And then –‘

‘What?’

‘Well, if I am not mistaken from this distance, the body seemed rather tidy as it lay. Arms and legs in a somewhat neutral repose, not all hugger-mugger as one might expect. Now: is this a sign of sorrow or even remorse? Is this indicative of the horror of the slaughter? A moment perhaps in which the enemy of Ma’afu, gasping from the effort of smiting him down, looked tenderly on his quarry as he lay slain on the grave of another? What do you think?’

‘I am sure I have no idea. It is hard to imagine a rage so insane.’

‘That is because you lack the imagination on the one hand and the pastoral experience on the other.’

‘I see.’ The putdown was kindly, and Graham actually appreciated it.

‘Murderous rage is almost as old as humankind’.