 
GODMAN

By John Ellis

Copyright 2011 John Ellis

Smashwords Edition

Someone take these dreams away.

That point me to another day.

A duel of personalities.

They stretch all true realities.

Joy Division

Dead Souls

PART ONE

THE LORD IS MY SHEPHERD

Now the works of the flesh are manifest, which are these: Adultery, fornication, uncleanness, lasciviousness, idolatry, witchcraft, hatred, variance, emulations, wrath, strife, seditions, heresies, envying, murders, drunkenness, revellings, and such like; of the which I tell you before, as I have also told you in time past, that they which do such things shall not inherit the kingdom of God.

Galatians 5:19-21

A small darkened room. A man is kneeling with his head bowed in front of an elaborate home-made altar that covers almost the whole of the wall. He raises his head and addresses it with deference. 'Lord, I pray you give me strength tonight as I go out among the degenerate scum who have turned their backs on you...

The boozers.

The junkies.

The fornicators.

The pimps.

The whores.

The Cunts.

THE FREAKS!

THE QUEERS!

Please give me the strength to resist their foul stench and temptations that will no doubt be laid out before me. And protect me from Satan. For I am a weak and troubled man. The least of your creations. _Be strong and of a good courage, fear not, nor be afraid...for the Lord thy God, he it is that doth go with thee: he will not fail thee, nor forsake thee._ '

The altar consists of literally hundreds of items of religious paraphernalia ranging from the solemn to the bizarre. Crucifixes, statues, lights, candles, pictures of Mary and Jesus, etc. Many of the items veer the wrong side of tacky, a red flashing cross for instance, but taken as a whole, the sheer scale of the thing renders it impressive.

It's clearly the product of a fucked-up mind. A product of the mind of Clive Walker, forty-five years old, slightly fat and balding. The very definition of unremarkable, if you passed him on the street you wouldn't give him a second look.

Why would you?

An only-child, bed wetting mummy's boy who's recently been released from prison after serving twenty-five years of a life sentence. Now he lives in a prison of his own creation. While inside Clive _found_ God. Or should that be that God found him?

The consummate loner, apart from religion, Clive's life is dominated by sex in every way imaginable; getting it, not getting it, thinking about getting it, thinking about not getting it, dreaming about it, _obsessing over it_. Not healthy 'normal' sex but sick, deviant, violent sex. The sort of weird animalistic shit most people keep buried under lock and key in the dark corners of their mind. Hidden from view, because it frightens them too much.

He begins to recite the twenty-third psalm. 'The lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures;

he leadeth me beside the still waters.

He restoreth my soul:

he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake...'

He pauses for a moment as he struggles to recall the rest. Then remembering, he continues.

' _...Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil:_

for thou art with me;

thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

Thou prepares a table before me in the presence of mine enemies:

thou anointest my head with oil;

my cup runneth over.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life:

and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.'

Amen.

Clive is in Soho. It's late, very late for a man used to being in bed by nine. The streets are strewn with the detritus of a typical Saturday night: puke, piss, beer bottles, newspapers and half-eaten takeaways. Walking down Berwick Street Clive takes it all in with disdain, disgust even.

He stops and watches as a drunk pukes in the gutter. A little further on he sees a young woman totally out of it pissing in an alley, her urine soiled knickers pulled down around her ankles.

Her fat friend who's standing guard notices Clive looking. 'What the fuck you looking at? FUCK OFF!'

Clive pauses for a moment continuing to watch, shocked by both the view and the woman's course language. Then moves on.

The friend shouts after him. 'That's right. Fuck off you perv.'

God, why don't you just blow all these cunts away? Clive thinks to himself. Never in the history of humanity can so many scumbags have occupied such a small space at once.

Further on in Rupert Street he comes across a young woman standing half-naked in a shabby doorway. A siren to lure suckers to their doom. She decides Clive looks a likely candidate. 'You want to come in love? We've got lots of nice girls inside.'

'What is this place?' Clive asks. 'A bar?'

'Yeah, but with lots of nice girls. You'll like it.

'Will I?'

'Yeah.'

After glancing around furtively to see who's watching, he decides to go in. The girl stands aside allowing him to go down the steep stairs into a dingy basement.

The descent into hell.

'Enjoy yourself.' She calls after him.

'Thanks.'

Waiting to greet him at the bottom of the stairs is a gorilla in an ill fitting suit. His head shaven. His eyes piercing. Next to him stands one of the clip joint's hostesses dressed rather provocatively in a black and red basque, with matching black and red knickers, black fishnet stockings and red patent leather stiletto heels. She's clearly bored but musters the best smile she can at this late hour. Clive estimates her age at about thirty, though she's heavily made up and standing in dim light, so she might well be much older.

'Twenty quids boss.' King Kong says in a thick Eastern European accent.

'You what?'

'Twenty quids.'

'I have to pay a score to go in?'

'Yes, you must pay to become member.'

'Don't worry you'll have fun.' The hostess interjects.

Clive begins to suspect he's going to get stitched up, but not wanting to lose face, he pays the money and follows the girl in.

The _bar_ is the shabbiest place Clive had even been in. It's matt black painted walls are dimly illuminated by a few coloured lights and the threadbare carpet feels greasy underfoot. If he hadn't just paid twenty quid to get in, he would have walked straight back out again.

A second rate sound system is playing monotonous thudding dance music to an empty dance floor the size of a postage stamp. Clive doesn't recognize the tune.

A barman stands talking to another hostess at the bar. They both look tired and bored. The only other punters are two Japanese tourists sitting at a table with a couple of the girls. They seem to be having fun at least. Clive thinks.

He sits down at a table with a wobbly leg. The girl sits next to him. 'You gonna buy me a drink?' She asks.

'Okay. What do you want?'

She beckons the barman. 'This is a champagne bar. We only serve Champagne here.'

'Champagne! How much is that?'

She ignores the question. 'What's your name love?'

'Clive.'

'Hi Clive, I'm Honey.'

'Alright?'

The champagne arrives already open with two glasses on a silver tray. Clive takes a sip. It's sickly sweet, whatever it is, it isn't champagne. He puts the glass down on the table surveying the scene before him. Already wondering what the fuck he's doing here.

'Do you wanna dance with me Clive?'

'No thanks, I don't dance.'

'Never mind.'

She puts her hand on his leg and starts rubbing his inner thigh near his cock. He begins to get a hard-on. 'Anything else you wanna do?' She licks her lips provocatively.

Clive looks at her as incredulously. Does this retarded cunt know who she's dealing with? He wonders. 'You should be careful. You don't know anything about me.'

'You look friendly enough to me.'

I must be strong. Thinks Clive, but his cock keeps growing. Lord, give me strength. For fuck's sake.

She keeps rubbing. He keeps growing.

He imagines his cock between those painted ruby lips.

A shabby room with just a single bed in it. Honey is on her knees giving Clive a blowjob. Her left hand has hold of the base of his cock wanking him while her lips move expertly up and down his shaft. Clive lifts her hair up to get a better view of the action.

He's close to spurting. Before he does, he grabs hold of her hair roughly and pulls her off. 'Owww.' She whimpers. 'What the fuck?'

Clive gets right down in her face. 'That's enough of that.' He says aggressively. 'I'm going to fuck you now you little slag!'

He fucks her in the cunt, pinning her down by her neck with his forearm as he does. All his weight bearing down on her, stopping her from moving as if he's fucking a piece of dead meat. 'Is that what you wanted you dirty fucking whore?'

He fucks her in the arse, pulling her hair with his left hand and slapping her arse hard with his right. 'You love it like this don't you? You dirty little slut!'

Clive is back in front of his altar. This time he's topless.

'Lord, forgive me. I failed you again.' He picks up a bunch of hazel twigs fashioned together into an instrument of chastisement.

'The mind is strong, but the flesh is still weak.' With this he proceeds to whip himself twice across the back with force. He grimaces from the pain.

'The mind is strong, but the flesh is still weak.' He whips himself twice more. Red welts begin to appear on his skin.

'The mind is strong, but the flesh is still weak...'

HMP Whatton, Nottingham

Clive has been at Whatton for two years. He transferred here from a maximum security prison to prepare him for his eventual release. While here he's participated in numerous offender treatment programmes such as enhanced thinking skills training, and an anger management course; CALM (Controlling Anger and Learning to Manage it).

The therapists are all extremely pleased with Clive's progress. Apparently he now; _no longer represents a significant danger to the public. And is; unlikely to engage in recidivist activity in the near future._ Therefore, they recommended him for release, and after a few months waiting, today is that day. The day he gets to start his life over again. The first day of the rest of his life, and all that shit. Year Zero.

Having collected up all his worldly possessions into a large black sports bag, Clive sits down on his bunk to think. This is the last time he'll ever set foot in this room. The thought makes him somewhat sad. He looks up at a crudely made sign that simply says:

JESUS

It's a plain A4 sheet of white paper with Jesus written in black marker pen. Clive sleeps in the lower bunk, and put this on the bottom of the top bunk because he wanted it to be the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes in the morning. Then it occurred to him that he might sleep on his side, and placed two more on the walls either side just in case.

He wonders whether he should take them with him, but concludes that his cell mate Andy needs them far more than he does. He can always make up some more anyway.

Clive is sitting in a holding room with the sports bag sat on the seat next to him. The cheap black polyester suit provided by the prison authorities makes him look like an undertaker, and in the hot July heat is making him sweat profusely.

He feels light-headed, nauseas even, and his stomach is full of knots. Not only is this probably his last chance to make something of his life, but in a few minutes he'll have to fend for himself for the first time in twenty-five years. If he's honest, he'll admit he's scared shitless. The walls of various prisons have defined his existence for more than half his life and he's not sure he can cope without them.

Behind a large counter are two prison officers. One of them is filling out a form. He beckons Clive over. 'Walker.'

Clive goes over. He puts his bag on the floor by his feet and leans on the top of the counter. 'Yes, Mister Carter.'

Carter orders him back. 'Behind the white line please Walker.'

'Sorry.'

'Right, it's that time Walker. Time for you to be unleashed back into society, so to speak.'

'Yes, Mister Carter.'

Clive found out early on in his sentence that bad things happen to people like him inside. He learnt two invaluable lessons in the first few days all those years ago that he NEVER forgot: One, _you do your own time. Keep your head down and mind your own business._ And two, _be nice to the screws._ Never answer back, and only speak when you're spoken to. 'Yes sir, no sir, three bags full sir.' He's followed these rules for so long now, they've become second nature. A part of who he is.

'I take it we'll not be seeing you back in here any time soon?'

'No.' Clive mumbles.

'What was that?'

'I said no Mister Carter. You wont be seeing me again.'

'Pleased to hear it, sign here please.' Carter pushes the form towards him. 'Not that I wont miss you of course Clive, but you've been here long enough haven't you?'

'Yeah, I have. Though I think the Lord has better use for me now.'

'Does he?

'I think so, yeah.'

'Okay that's it. You're officially a free man Clive.'

'Thanks.' Clive holds out his hand.

The two screws each shake his hand then watch him pick up his bag and begin to leave.

'And Clive...' Carter says, stopping him in his tracks.

'Yeah?' Says Clive, half fearing, half hoping they've changed they're minds about letting him out. A voice flashing through his head; _you didn't think we were actually going to let you out did you Clive, you silly cunt..._

'...Be good out there.'

Relieved/disappointed? 'I will.'

They watch him leave. Then Carter turns to the other screw; 'What a twat.'

'Yeah, he looked like he was going to shit his pants.'

They crack up laughing.

Outside the prison.

Clive's debt to society is paid. He's free. He'll be on license for the rest of his life, and have to keep his nose clean or he's back inside, but he's free never the less.

He looks up at the sky as if seeing it for the first time. It's dark, ominous and heavy. It feels like it's going to storm.

A screw closes the door on him without a word. Not even a _fuck off now Clive you're not our problem any more._ Nothing. As far as they're concerned he no longer exists. He never existed.

There's no-one to collect him.

He has no family or friends.

He's on his own.

Alone.

He's suddenly griped by a crushing sense of loneliness. Fuck, now what? The world's a scary place and he no longer belongs in it. He knows he should be pleased he's out, but he's not convinced he is.

A fag always calms him down. He fishes a packet of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket and lights up. This will be his first ever fag as a free man as he didn't start smoking until he was banged up. He takes a long deep drag and expels the smoke through his nose. That's better.

Just then a cab pulls up alongside him.

'You Mr Walker?' The driver asks.

'Yeah.'

'Hop in. I'm here to take you to the train station.'

The 10.25, Nottingham to London train is crowded and stifling hot. Everywhere he looks Clive sees acres of naked female flesh. He feels like a starving man at a banquet. 'Jesus.' He says under his breath, his eyes darting from tits to arse and back again.

A young woman walks down the aisle wearing an outfit that leaves little to the imagination; skin tight jeans and a cut-down tee shirt that hugs her curves.

She shoves her case in the overhead storage, with her navel a couple of inches from Clive's face. He could literally stick out his tongue and lick the thin film of sweat off of her stomach.

'Sorry about that.' She says sitting down opposite him.

'No problem.' He replies. _No fucking problem at all._

She's so gorgeous he can hardly take his eyes off her. You could make an old man very happy indeed, he thinks to himself gripping hold of a wooden cross in his hands and looking out of the window at the countryside flashing by.

The train hurtling him to an uncertain future.

Clive walks from the train station up to his house bathed in the glow of nostalgia. He passes by the swing park he played in as a little kid, the patch of rough grass he used to play football on, and the pub where he had his first alcoholic drink, now an Indian restaurant.

Clives house is an anonymous suburban semi, located on an anonymous suburban street. Row after row of faceless houses, every one the same as the next. Virtually identical in every way apart from minor embellishments added by each resident to establish that _they_ are individuals who have a personality. They're all virtually identical except for one that is. Clives house stands out from the rest like a sore thumb. The Walker family pile looks run down, dirty and unloved. A right eye sore.

The probation service arranged with the council to have the metal shutters that have entombed the house for nearly a decade removed yesterday. They also arranged for the utilities to be reconnected, and for the loan of a small portable television to keep him company.

But they didn't do anything about the damage to the house, or the state of the front garden, which has become the local dumping ground.

Clive's not prepared for the condition he finds the house is in. When he last saw it, it was immaculately kept, now the front garden is full of rotting black sacks and overgrown with weeds taller than he is. A window has been broken, and graffiti is daubed on the house proclaiming who wants to fuck who, and what team such and such supports.

_This_ is his inheritance.

However, despite all that, and not laying eyes on this place in years, the instant he sees it again Clive knows he's home. He feels a sense of belonging you only get in the place you grew up.

He produces the key from his pocket and enters.

The interior of the house is almost as bad as the outside. After his mothers death, before the house was boarded up, kids had broken in and ransacked the place. They seemingly held a party there and stole anything of any value.

Despite this, most of his mothers possessions remain untouched. Family photo's litter the floor. Pictures of him as a child, pictures of him with his mother and father, and pictures of distant relations he was only ever vaguely aware of.

Childhood memories come flooding back. The loneliness he felt earlier is replaced by an overwhelming sense of melancholy. In his minds eye he can see the boy he once was running up and down the stairs without a care in the world. This place knows him.

It knew him before he fucked up his life.

His mother always had a fondness for a drink, but it seems to have developed into a serious problem after his incarceration. Every wall of every room is lined with empty _Martini_ bottles. Hundreds of them, maybe thousands, snaking around the walls and any obstructions such as furniture in a sort of bizarre art installation.

An army of oblivion standing to attention.

'Why keep them?' Clive asks his dead mother aloud. 'Why the fuck wouldn't you just throw them out after you'd finished?' He decides this is the old girls message to him. She knew one day he'd set eyes on these bottles and know, _just know_ that this was his doing. He'd put her in an early grave as sure as if he'd smothered her with a pillow.

He goes into the living room and draws the curtains. The sun streams into the room catching the clouds of dust dancing in the light. Feeling slightly overwhelmed, he sits down on the dusty sofa to ruminate, unable to take his eyes off of the bottles.

He always regretted the way his crimes affected his mother. After all, she didn't spend twenty-seven hours in labour for him to turn into a monumental fuck up did she? If she'd have known she would probably have got rid of him. Then everyone would have been better off.

At the same time, on a street not a million miles away, a young woman is asking random strangers for change. This is Mary. Twenty-one going on fifty-one, Mary's been on the street for over three years, ever since her parents threw her out when she was eighteen.

At first glance she looks like any other beggar, whore or homeless person you'd come across on the streets. But if you took the time to take a closer look, you'd see she would be a bit of a looker if she took care of herself. But of course she doesn't. She's seen far too much for a girl her age and her face is already beginning to harden and take on lines accordingly. Her clothes are crumpled and dirty, her hair is lank and greasy and her teeth are beginning to yellow.

She proffers a white polystyrene cup in front of her like it was a precious gift. 'Can you spare some change please?' She says to a well dressed middle-aged woman.

The woman walks past her like she's not even there. 'Whatever.' Says Mary and she's onto another, the woman forgotten the instant she failed to respond positively. It's all about the law of averages. The more people you ask, the more positive responses you get, and thus the more money you make. Obviously that also means the more negative responses you get, but you can't take those to heart. You have to develop leathery skin if you're going to be survive on the streets and Mary developed that a long time ago.

Mary used to be a good girl. She never gave it up until she was sixteen, and even then it was for love, not just a casual shag. Pete burst her hymen over her _Brad Pitt_ duvet cover while her parents were out.

...Later he also got her into drugs. Now she'll fuck anyone for the price of her next hit of crack or heroin.

'Any spare change?'

A smartly dressed guy blows her off. 'Get out of it.'

'Tight bastard.'

She approaches another likely target. 'Can you spare some change please?'

'How much do you need?'

'I just need like, two quid, to get the bus home.'

The guy grabs a handful of change out of his pocket and scrutinises it.

Mary continues with her story. 'Yeah like, some bastard nicked all my money and now I can't get home. You can't trust no-one these days can you? I mean, she was supposed to be a mate...'

'I've only got a pound.'

'Cool, cheers.' She takes the money. 'Don't suppose you've got a spare fag you can lend us?'

'Sorry, I don't smoke.'

'Never mind.'

He heads off. She's onto another. 'Spare some change please?'

HMP Maidstone, Kent.

Clive has been called to the governors office. He assumes he must be in some kind of trouble, otherwise why would the Old Man want to see him?

A screw opens the door. 'Walker.'

Clive follows him in.

'Hello Walker,' the governor says. 'How are you?'

'I'm fine sir.'

'Good. I wont beat about the bush Walker. You received a letter this morning.' He holds up a crumpled letter and envelope. 'I'm afraid it contains rather bad news.' He hands it to Clive who begins reading it. The minute _'rather bad news'_ was mentioned he knew exactly what it contained. It begins: _'I thought you should know...'_

The governor continues. 'It's from a neighbour of your mothers, a Mrs Fraser I believe. It seems she hadn't seen your mother in several days and became concerned...'

As the governor drones on Clive continues reading the letter. It briefly describes how, after becoming concerned about his mother, Mrs Fraser had called in the police. They had broken into the house and discovered his mothers body lying on the kitchen floor. It seems she'd been dead for quite a while.

'I don't know why the authorities haven't informed you already Walker.' The governor says. 'I'll look into it for you if you like?'

Clive feels numb. 'Yes sir. Thank you.'

Back in his cell he feels utterly bereft. To be all alone in the world is a terrible thing. Now Clive has nobody. Nobody who cares about him, nobody he can confide in, and nobody to visit him. A deep, dark blackness enshrouds him. 'What the fuck am I supposed to do now.' He implores nobody in particular.

Two days later he tried to commit suicide for the first time.

He cut his wrists with a knife he smuggled out of his art class. It wasn't really a serious attempt, he'll admit that, more of a cry for help really. He was found by a screw a couple of hours later and taken to the hospital wing to recover.

Despite extensive counselling, those dark feelings never really left him, and over the next five years he not only self-harms, but also attempts to take his own life three more times.

Then God came into his life, and the darkness lifted somewhat.

Mary is hidden in a secluded alley behind a multi-story car park surrounded by cardboard boxes and rubbish. It's almost like a secret little hideout. She doesn't want to go home to the flat she shares with Clint because that means she'll have to share her gear with him, and he can look after himself.

She's smoking crack from a pipe fabricated out of an old _Coke_ can. This is her reward for a hard days work. She enjoys the intense hit as it passes through her body.

'OH, FUCK! YES.'

Someone asked her the other day what crack felt like. Mary told them it was like the best fucking orgasm you ever had, times ten. Though truth be told, she hasn't actually had an orgasm in quite a while. Sex is just a means to an end these days, and she never comes with a man's cock inside her anyway, not even with her boyfriend Clint.

After the intense high Mary lies down on her back to enjoy the buzz. Soon after she's asleep. Exhausted by a combination of lack of food, drugs and tiredness.

She sleeps deep. The sleep of the dead.

'If I'm going to live here, it needs to be cleaned up.' Clive says to himself when he finally pulls himself together. 'I can't live in this piss-hole!' The two most useful things prison taught him were cleanliness and discipline. Twenty-five years of living in a five by nine cell gives you that if nothing else.

As he rolls up his sleeves in preparation of the work ahead, he regards the scars covering both his inner forearms, more relics from his past. The shrinks in prison had taught him to snap a rubber band that was wrapped around his wrist whenever he had dark thoughts. It was supposed to make you aware of what you were doing and bring you back to reality, but it never really worked for Clive. He needed something far more dramatic.

One day while he was smoking a cigarette in the yard, the dark thoughts descended on him once again. He didn't know what he was going to do, he never did until it actually happened, but it was going to be bad, he knew that much. Without really thinking about what he was doing, instead of snapping the rubber band against his wrist like he'd been taught, he plunged the cigarette into his forearm instead. The intense pain together with the smell of burning flesh seemed to do the trick, and the bad thoughts soon passed.

Whenever he had similar thoughts after that day he'd resort to the _fag burn method_ , as he called it, rather than the rubber band. Now he has twenty-four scars across his arms as souvenirs. Thirteen on his left arm, and eleven on his right.

First he gets rid of those fucking bottles. It takes him over a dozen trips to the recycling bank by the shops to get rid of them. But with them out of the way he feels he can get on with the job at hand.

He bags up most of what's left of his mother's things for the charity shop. He keeps virtually nothing. Personal possessions have very little meaning to anyone except the person they belonged to. What good are dozens of videos of carefully recorded TV shows to anyone except the person who recorded them for instance? Or a plastic _Eiffel Tower?_ A souvenir of a long forgotten holiday, who's participants are all now dead.

Even the family snapshots are all discarded. He thinks about keeping some of his mother, but in the end decides to make a clean break. Whenever he thinks of her can only recall the look on her face when she first confronted him in prison about his crimes. There was a look of disgust on her face that he'll take with him to the grave. She continued visiting him of course, but something was now different. He wasn't her little boy any more, and she never looked at him in the same _motherly_ way again. From then on she eyed him with a certain amount of suspicion, like any woman would a convicted sex offender. Even one who's their son.

When all that's taken care of, he sets about the cleaning.

He cleans the kitchen.

He cleans the bathroom.

He cleans the bedrooms.

As the years of dust and grime are removed, the house seems to come alive again. It's as if it senses the love being lavished on it and responds accordingly. This is how he remembered it when his mother was alive. It _will_ be his home again.

Mary is found comatose by a group of youths. They're all about sixteen or seventeen. Though not inherently bad, their actions are governed by a pack mentality, and that's hardly ever good.

They try to rouse her.

'Oi, you alright?'

No response.

'The silly slag's fucked.'

They all laugh.

One of them gives her a kick.

Nothing.

Another burns her tits with his fag.

Still nothing.

They feel her up, finger her, and wank over her face and tits.

One of them films it all on his mobile phone. Tonight he'll post the footage on _You Tube._

Clive is crashed out on the sofa watching telly. The big clean up of the house was the hardest manual labour he's engaged in for quite a while, now he's completely exhausted.

He can scarcely believe the difference in the house from this morning. Granted, it's not exactly spotless, but it's a damned sight better than it was. He knows his mother wouldn't be impressed of course, his mother of his youth that is not the one who collected the bottles, but nevertheless, he feels like he's really achieved something today and he feels content.

He's watching a programme about a female reality TV star who became a porno actress when interest in her began to fade. She only has two things going for her, Clive thinks, and they're beginning to sag. Correction, three things. She looks dirty, like she can really fuck.

Earlier he had a wank.

Tomorrow he begins God's work.

Clive's at his local Anglican church, St John's. It's a small, unremarkable place, that would have failed to impress even in it's heyday, which was clearly a long time ago. The windows are protected by mesh covers which obscure the stained glass and the church hall is a modern _carbuncle_ added in the seventies. No wonder nobody goes to church anymore. Clive thinks.

It's half-filled with mostly older people taking part in the traditional Sunday service. The exception to this is a nubile young girl of about fifteen with her family. She's wearing a snug fitting white floral dress that accentuates her firm, youthful figure.

Clive can't help noticing this since they sat down directly in front of him, giving him an excellent view. That's ripe for the picking. He thinks to himself. In his experience, a woman's body, particularly her tits, are at their peak in her teenage years. After that, it all starts going south.

He feels a twitch in his cock as he imagines reaching over and putting his hand between her legs. He pictures her parting her legs for him, and gasping as he slips a finger into her. Maybe two.

Then it hits him. Lolita and her family chose to sit directly in front of him despite the fact that the church is barely half-full. Why?

A trap.

He looks up at Jesus on the cross.

Fuck! He thinks. He's staring straight at me.

He glances around and is certain people are giving him sideways glances and muttering about his lechery. They all know.

Fuck!

They all fucking know!

He feels hot.

His heart races.

Suddenly he's aware that everyone else has stood up.

The organ kicks in and the congregation begin to sing Abide With Me: _'Abide with me, fast falls the eventide;_

The darkness deepens, Lord with me abide!

When other helpers fail and comforts flee,

Help of the helpless, O abide with me.'

He feels light headed.

He itches so bad he wants to tear the skin off his back.

Why did you do something so fucking stupid! He thinks. In here of all places.

Jesus H. Christ is still staring down at him.

' _Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day;_

Earth's joys grow dim, it's glories pass away;

Change and decay in all around I see;

O thou who changes not, abide with me.'

Fuck!

Clive gets through the rest of the service by keeping his eyes fixed firmly on either the vicar, or his prayer book. He's not going to get trapped by her again that's for sure. _Watch and pray that ye enter not into temptation; the spirit is indeed willing, but the flesh is weak._

Outside the church after service the vicar is seeing everybody off. He's of a similar age to Clive but in much better shape. Next to him is a plump, but not unattractive, young woman. They seem to be intimate. Clive wonders if she's his wife, but quickly concludes she's too young for that. Probably his bit on the side, some kind of religious nympho. A vicar-fucker.

The vicar extends his hand towards Clive. 'Hello, I'm Colin.' He's all smiles, and so is the woman.

Clive takes his hand. 'Clive, pleased to meet you.'

'Is this your first visit to our little church Clive?'

'It is, yeah.'

'And how did you enjoy the service?'

'It was alright.'

'It was alright was it? Praise indeed Clive. Praise indeed.'

Clive might not be the sharpest tool in the box but he knows when he's being condescended. Not that he give's a fuck. He's too busy eyeing up the vicar-fucker to care. He's quite partial to a woman with a bit of meat on her. It usually means they've got big tits, and he's particularly fond of women with big tits.

The vicar interrupts his thoughts. 'Will you be returning next week?'

'Yeah, I think I will.'

'Excellent. I'll see you then.'

Clive wonders what sort of service the vicar will be giving her later? A private consultation no doubt. The dirty bastard.

'Okay, bye.'

As he continues loitering around Clive sees Lolita and her family head off home. Without even thinking about it he instinctively follows after them. He feels a compulsion to know where his tempter lives.

He just _needs_ to know.

They walk down the street towards the parade of shops near Clive's house. As he follows about twenty yards behind he feels the old thrill well up inside him. It feels good, like he's alive for the first time in years.

Walking along with her family she looks perfect and unsullied. An angel who is unknown by man. She doesn't just walk, she glides. Her perfection and virginity makes his own wretched existence all the harder to bear. She is the yin to his yang. The purity to his poison. Would he ever be worthy of possessing such beauty?

When they get to the shops they turn left. Clive follows them, but crosses the road to avoid looking suspicious. They live in a small terraced house next a primary school. The same primary school Clive attended as a boy in fact. As they wait to get in, the girl glances across the road at Clive and they make eye contact. She recognises him from the church and gives him a smile. His stomach flips and he immediately looks away. He feels unworthy to glance upon such magnificent splendour.

Clive is waiting amongst a bunch of other people for a bus to take him to see his probation officer. It's his first visit and he's set off very early because he doesn't want to be late.

The 96 bus pulls up to the stop. It's already rammed. Clive can't believe anyone else can possibly get on, let alone the amount of people waiting here. But to his amazement people begin piling on.

'You getting on mate or what?' Asks a young woman standing impatiently behind him, bus-pass at the ready.

'I don't see us getting on this one, do you?'

'You what? There's loads of room on there yet.'

'You reckon?'

They all reckon. Most of the people waiting behind Clive have already gone around him and are busy forcing their way onto the bus. 'Come on mate. Get on.' Implores the woman.

'I might just wait for the next one.'

'Don't be daft. It'll be exactly the same...You don't use the bus very often do you?'

'Shows does it?'

'Just a bit.'

Clive squeezes onto the bus. He feels like a sardine crushed from all sides. To make matters worse he's standing next to an old boy who smells like he hasn't seen a bar of soap in months.

He lasts until the next stop when he decides he'd rather walk the rest of the way than suffer this. 'Jesus Christ.' He glances up toward heaven. 'Sorry Lord. I didn't mean that.'

The streets offer little respite from the throng as thousands of commuters make their way to work. Clive swears the population of London must have at least tripled while he's been away.

And everyone's in such a hurry! He feels like he's operating in slow motion while everyone else is on fast forward. What the fuck are they all afraid of missing he wonders?

Clive's parole officer John Finch is a thirty something bearded dullard. The kind of guy who wears tweed jackets with leather patches on the elbows, and brown sweaters. He peers at Clive between two mountains of case files stacked shoulder high on his desk. He only has fifteen minutes a week with each client, and the paperwork takes ten to fill out. That leaves five minutes for all other business. Not a lot, but what can he do about it? 'I'll be with you in a minute.' He says to Clive. 'I just need to finish this up.'

'No problem.' Clive replies as he looks around the room. A general feeling of abandonment pervades the place, that has more in common with a junk room than a working office. Everywhere he looks Clive can see files, books and other paperwork spilling off of shelves and out of cupboards. A wilted pot plant is dying from lack of water on the windowsill, and cobwebs have taken possession of every corner of the ceiling where the cleaning lady has long since given up trying to push her way past the general detritus.

When he started as a PO seven years ago Finch was full of bullshit ideas about helping people. Not any more. Disappointment soon put an end to those thoughts, now he's just marking time until he gets promoted to the next grade and doesn't have to deal directly with offenders any more. If he's honest, he'll admit he's sick of all of them and their tawdry little lives. Most days he feels like the little boy with his finger stuck in the dike, holding back a sea of shit.

Finch addresses Clive in his standard condescending tone. 'Right, he checks the form in front of him, _Clive_. My name is John Finch and my job is to help reintegrate you back into society, okay?

'Okay.'

'So, how are you adjusting to life on the outside so far?'

'Alright. It's weird, you know?'

'In what way?'

'Everything's different.'

'It will be. Twenty-five years is a long time. Things change.'

'Tell me about it, my secondary school's now luxury flats.'

Finch snorts. He checks his watch, already thinking about his next appointment.

Clive continues. 'And the prices...'

'House prices are through the roof...'

'Not house prices. Coffee prices.'

'Sorry?'

'I stopped for a cup of coffee at some place called _Starbucks_ on the way over. Three and half quid for a cup of coffee? I nearly fell over when they said that.'

'It is quite expensive in there.'

'I'll say. And what's a latte anyway?'

'A milky coffee.'

'So why not just call it a milky coffee then?'

'We're all supposed to be European now Clive.'

'It was nice though, when I went inside all you could get was a cup of lukewarm instant.'

Finch smiles despite himself, then checks his notes.

'What about a job Clive? Have you started looking yet?'

'No, I haven't bothered yet. I want to find my feet first.'

'What about money? Dole money doesn't go far these days you've found that out already.'

'I'm not signing on either. Mum died while I was inside and left me a few bob. Money shouldn't be an issue for a while.'

Finch studies his paperwork again. 'Oh right. It says here she left you a house as well. Is that right?'

'Yeah, the family home. I'm living there now.'

'Are you planning on keeping it?'

'I think so, yeah. Apart from prison it's the only home I've ever known. I couldn't imagine living anywhere else to be honest.'

'Well, at least you have some familiar surroundings.'

'Yeah, I suppose so. Though truth be told they don't seem that familiar after twenty-five years away.'

'Most people who come out of prison aren't as lucky.'

'I'm not complaining, don't get me wrong, it's just that I'm used to sharing with five hundred other people. Now I've only got ghosts for company.'

'It's only natural to feel a bit lonely at first.'

'I know. It's just that all my mates are in prison. I don't know a soul on the outside. Not one person.'

'That's why a job might be a good idea, even though you don't need the money. It'll get you out and about, and meeting people. Maybe you could find some voluntary work?'

'Like what?'

'Maybe working in a soup kitchen or something like that? I see you trained as a cook in prison.'

'Maybe, yeah. I'll look into it.'

'Good.' Finch pushes the form in front of Clive with a pen lying on top of it. 'Sign there please. We'll talk more next time.'

PART TWO

GOD IS ALWAYS WATCHING

Reproach hath broken my heart; and I am full of heaviness: and I looked for some to take pity, but there was none; and for comforters, but I found none. They gave me also gall for my meat; and in my thirst they gave me vinegar to drink.

Psalm 69

Clive's life settles into a routine. In no time he becomes just another cog in a giant machine way beyond his comprehension. The days pass by indifferently.

Day's become weeks.

Weeks become months.

In prison Clive had worked in the kitchen and trained as a chef, he has certificates and everything to prove it, but now on the outside he can hardly be bothered to prepare himself a proper meal at all. What's the point in cooking elaborate cuisine for just one person, he reasons. Most days he eats either takeaway fast-food, or tasteless oven ready meals, often doing without cooked food altogether in favour of a sandwich or simple salad. His mealtimes reduced to the level of physiological necessity, rather than any form of pleasurable experience.

Though inured somewhat to boredom by his time in prison, to help him pass the time, Clive devotes himself to building a home altar in his bedroom. A monument to his unwavering devotion to God.

He had built a small one in his cell, but limitations on space and availability of religious artefacts in prison placed boundaries on it's possibilities. Now, unrestrained by such considerations Clive sets about building a shrine worthy of the Lord's grace.

It begins with the items Clive brought with him from prison, just a few simple crosses and pictures. Then, as new items are added it begins to take the shape that Clive imagined in his head.

Whole days are devoted to visiting religious bookshops, flea markets, charity shops and boot sales. Artefacts both large and small, tacky and tasteful are gathered.

Gradually the altar takes shape.

To most people, the hundreds of items of religious paraphernalia that constitute the shrine would appear to be haphazardly placed, inserted wherever space is available. But that is not the case. Each item is placed _exactly_ where it belongs, and what's more, each item acquired is _exactly_ the right item for the space available. Clive concludes that the Lord does indeed work in mysterious ways. 'This is my fucking church.' He mutters surveying his handiwork.

With the altar now occupying virtually the whole of the wall, Clive plans to extend it onto both the adjacent walls, and the ceiling as necessary.

Mary is slumped on the sofa of a seedy flat watching television with the sound turned down. Her boyfriend/dealer/pimp/homey Clint is on his mobile phone to an associate who owes him money. Apart from the TV, the only quality item in the room is the hi-fi which is pumping out _Fiddy Cent_ at high volume.

The place is a mess, with takeaway food packaging, empty beer cans and dirty clothes littering virtually everywhere and everything you can see. If you want to sit down somewhere, or put something down anywhere, even the floor, you have to move crap out of the way first. Mary swears the squat she used to stay at before was cleaner than this place, not that she's prepared to do anything about it of course. Anyway, at the end of the day a flat is only a place to lay your head, and do your drugs isn't it? It's not like they'll be having the Queen round for tea any time soon is it?

Clint is a 24 year old white nigger _(wigger)_ with matted shoulder length white-boy dreads, and a mouthful of gold teeth. He's dressed head to toe in Nike sportswear and speaks with a heavily affected South-London meets Kingston, Jamaica accent.

He also considers himself some kind of gangster. A Tony Montana motherfucker. _Say hello to my little friend._

He speaks into the phone: 'Why are you fucking trying it blad? I told you before, don't fucking take me for no cunt, you got me?'

Mary chips in: 'Don't let him fuck with you Babe.'

'Shut the fuck up bitch! Who asked you anyway? A? Aint nobody fucking with me.'

To the phone: 'What you think? I'm a doughnut? Is that what you think? That I'm a fucking doughnut? A? I tell you what cunt, I aint no fucking doughnut, you got me? I'm a bad man. I'm a bad fucking man and I will fuck you up if you don't pay me my fucking money today, you got me?'

To Mary: 'Get me a beer.'

To the phone: 'I aint no fucking doughnut cunt, you got me? I'm the baddest man you will ever fucking meet. Now, PAY ME MY FUCKING MONEY!'

He turns the phone off and drops it on top of a pizza box on the coffee table.

'Cunt! He hisses.

Mary hands him a beer from the fridge.

He turns on her. 'What the fuck is wrong with you? A? Chatting shit to me when I'm on the phone like that!'

'Sorry.'

'You better be fucking sorry bitch. I tell you.' He take a pull of his beer. 'My trouble is I'm too fucking soft. People are always taking advantage of my good nature.'

_Psychology 101. Make the subject feel comfortable and they are far more likely to open up to you._ Clive's seen about a dozen shrinks in his time, and they all adhere to the same basic modus operandi. Five or ten minutes of small talk, before moving onto the consultation proper. As soon as he was aware of that he began playing a private game with himself regarding whether a new shrink was of the five, or ten minute variety.

The smart money's on this new guy Doctor James, being the former. He's fidgeting about in his seat far too much to last ten. Clive has developed an eye for body language as keen as any Las Vegas poker player, and he can tell by the little signals the doc is giving off that he can't wait to get into his head and expose his deepest, darkest secrets. No, he's definitely a five minute man alright.

The room is immaculately clean and sparsely furnished. Newly painted magnolia walls, a blonde wooden desk, three chairs and a metal filing cabinet.

The same could be said of Doc James, a sombrely dressed black man in his early thirties. A square if ever Clive saw one. There's nothing hip or street about the Doc. He displays all the signs of privilege, from his expensive suit, to his clipped RP accent and his tastefully understated cologne. He's slumming. Paying his dues on the front line of therapy before moving into private practice and earning big money treating neurotic housewives and disappointed high-flyers in the city who's wives don't understand them.

Four minutes and thirty seconds into the meeting and Clive is staring at the clock on the wall as the Doc continues spewing inanities about the weather.

Twenty five, and he's checking his watch...

Twenty, nearly there now...

Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen, he flips open his spiral notepad and picks up his pen...

Ten, nine, eight...

'So Clive, shall we begin?'

Clive breaks into a knowing smile, only eight seconds out. 'Why not?' He knew he was a five minute wonder.

'I thought we could start by talking about your childhood...'

'Okay, but my previous shrinks have already established it was all my mothers fault, it should say that right there in my file.'

James ignores Clive's flippant remark. 'I want to talk about when you first became interested in sex. To be more specific, when you first became interested in a woman's sex.'

'You mean, when did I first get into cunt?'

'Yes, if you like.'

An uncomfortable silence hangs in the air as Clive considers his answer. Then: 'Let me see. The first time I can remember seeing a girl's fanny was when I was ten years old.'

'Go on.'

'Susan Jones was her name, she called me into the bushes, pulled her knickers down and showed it to me.'

'How old was she?'

'About nine I think. She was the girl next door.'

'And how did it make you feel?'

'What do you mean?'

'Seeing this girls genitals did it arouse you? Did you get an erection?'

'I don't remember, it was too long ago. All I can really remember is that she didn't have any hair on it.'

'You'd seen pubic hair on other women?'

'In dirty books. When my mother took a bath, you know.'

'Okay, so what happened next?'

'I tried to touch it and she ran off and told her mother.'

James writes something in his notepad. 'Interesting.'

'What is?'

'Even at ten you were compelled to do things to women they either didn't like, or didn't want.'

'Yeah? Well the next week the little slut showed me it again. And this time she let me touch it.'

'You think of a nine year old girl as a slut?'

'I was only ten.'

'Yes, but you're talking of her now. These feelings you have of her being a _little slut_ are happening now.'

Clive becomes angry. 'I'm no nonce!' Is that what you're trying to say? That I'm some kind of fucking nonce?'

'No, I'm not saying that. Please calm down.'

Clive shuffles in his seat. 'I'm no fucking nonce.'

'I'm not inferring that at all, none of your crimes involved paedophilia, I'm merely trying to examine your attitude towards women, that's all.'

Clive fixes a stare on James. Who does this black cunt think he is?

'I see from your notes that you had other encounters with this girl, Susan Jones, didn't you?'

'Yeah, I did.'

'In connection with your mysophilia?'

'Sorry?'

'Your fetish for women's used underwear.'

'Why can't you people ever speak in plain language?'

'You people?'

'Shrinks.'

'You'd prefer it if I simply referred to you as a panty sniffer?'

'I would, yeah.'

'Very well, I'll try and use colloquial language as much as possible if that makes you happy....'

'There you go again. What the fuck is colloquial?'

Clive is sitting alone in his local run-down launderette. One mod-con his mother's place doesn't have yet is a washing machine.

He's watching his washing spin around intently, trying to make sense of his new life. What's it all about?

He's never felt so lonely.

It crosses his mind that he'd be better off back inside. You know where you stand inside. You do your time, and everything's taken care of for you. There are people to talk to, things to do, fewer temptations...

His thoughts are interrupted by a man sitting down next to him. 'Do you mind if I join you?' The man says in a thick Scottish accent.

Clive glances round at him thinking how much he hates Jocks. Fucking Jocks are nothing but trouble. The man is about thirty, and extremely unkempt looking. Clive concludes from his appearance and general demeanour that like most Jocks living in London, he's either homeless, a piss artist, or both.

'No worries.' He replies. Then tries to return to his thoughts.

'They're all cunts you know.'

'Sorry?'

'It's true, every fucking last one of them.'

'Who are?'

'Cats. Mean spirited little bastards.'

'Cats?'

'Mark my words pal. They suck you in, make you think they like you, then they stab you in the fucking back.'

Great, thinks Clive. Not only a Jock, but a fucking mentalist as well. 'I don't know mate.'

'Don't make like you haven't noticed. I know they're cute and furry, but you can't trust them. Not like a dog. Now, that's a _quality_ animal.'

'Yeah?'

'Fucking right. You can't knock unconditional devotion my friend. You can be a right cunt to a dog and he'll still love you, but a fucking cat? They'd cut your throat as soon as look at you if there was something in it for them. The cunts!'

Clive's not sure what to say, so he looks at his shoes.

'Do you know that one cat can have a whole street of people thinking that it lives with them? Just goes from one house to another getting fed, getting loved, exploiting peoples good will. Now if you or I did that we'd be locked up, but a cat? Oh no. You got a spare fag you can lend me?'

'Sorry, I don't smoke.'

'Come on, you smoke.'

'No, I don't.'

'Don't hold out on me pal. You smoke, I can tell you do.'

'Well, technically I do. But I'm trying to give up, so I don't have any at the moment.'

'Come on, give us a fucking fag.'

'Sorry, I haven't got any.'

The Jock's mood turns from jovial to angry in an instant. 'I've just been good enough to let you know about the cat problem we've got going on in this country, and you're too fucking tight to give us a fag for my trouble. And they say we're mean.'

'I haven't got any mate, honest.'

'Don't you fucking mate me you tight cunt! You're as bad as the fucking cats!' He gets up and leaves. 'FUCKING TIGHT CUNT!'

Clive makes a mental note: Must buy a washing machine as soon as fucking possible. Do not come here again!

'Jesus.'

After a couple of minutes the Jock comes back. 'I'm sorry about my outburst there pal, I've not been feeling myself lately.'

'It's alright mate.'

'No, it's not. It was completely unacceptable behaviour. Totally uncalled for. You were minding your own business and I insinuated myself on your company and insulted you...'

'It's alright, really.'

'Okay, if you're sure. I don't suppose you have any spare change you can lend me do you?'

Driven by instincts and old (bad) habits, Clive finds himself in Soho, a place where every type of sexual deviation and kink is catered for. He hasn't set foot on these streets in a quarter of a century and he eagerly drinks in the seediness and the sex. Jesus, it feels good to be back.

Hey babe, take a walk on the wild side.

It's a hot, close night. A storm hangs in the air.

In Brewer Street he comes across a small porno theatre simply called XXX Films. Intrigued, he goes in.

This isn't exactly your local multiplex. A video projector plays low-end, shot on video porn onto a five foot screen. About half the forty seats are occupied by desperate looking men, together with a couple of whores plying their trade.

Clive notes that most of them have their cocks out.

He tries to watch the film but an oriental slag a couple of seats down is giving a guy a noisy blowjob. Some of the men have gathered around the adjacent seats watching and wanking. Clive imagines her chomping on his shaft instead, and wonders what she charges.

He's horny, and has a hard-on.

He thinks about having a wank like the others, but he's too shy. He really wants his cock sucked, but doesn't want to sully himself further in the eyes of God.

What to do?

He leaves.

After wandering the streets of Soho again for a while, Clive goes into a bar in Old Compton Street for a beer. It's rammed. The air is moist with the perspiration of a hundred people packing the place to the rafters.

Clive hadn't noticed it at first, but looking round he can't help thinking there seems to be a strange mix of punters in the place. They seem to consist of either fairies or tasty-looking women, no blokes like him. What the fuck is that all about?

He notices one girl in particular. She's mid to late twenties, with long black hair and olive skin. A Mediterranean sort, probably Greek or Italian. Not his usual type maybe, but she's fit with a great body.

No harm in looking. She is really tasty.

She notices him too. After a while she sidles up to him.

'Seen something you like?' She says.

Clive is dumbstruck. Unable to formulate words he just smiles instead. Things have changed quite a bit while he's been away.

'I'm Monica.'

'Hi Monica, I'm Clive.' He shakes her hand. Even as he's doing it he realizes the absurdity of his action, and plunges his hands in his pockets so they don't betray his lack of experience again.

'Do you want to buy me a drink Clive?'

'Yeah, of course. What can I get you?'

'I'll have a voddy and lemonade please darling.'

'Sorry?'

'Vodka and lemonade.'

'Okay.'

Clive tries to beckon one of the bar staff but they're all too busy to notice. 'Excuse me.' No takers.

He tries again. 'Excuse me.' Still no good. He feels even more foolish than before.

'Never mind.' Monica says. 'I've got a place nearby.'

Clive's heart jumps into his mouth. 'Sorry?'

'We can go to my place instead if you like? It's just round the corner. What do you say?'

'Okay.' Things really have changed while he's been away. He follows Monica out of the bar, scarcely able to believe his luck. Less than an hour in and he's leaving with the fittest bird in the place. Shit like that just doesn't happen to blokes like him normally.

Monica's place turns out to be a functional room above a dirty-book shop in Peter Street that hasn't seen a lick of paint in about ten years.

It consists of a lumpy single bed, a bedside table and a plain wooden chair. In an ashtray on the window ledge are the remnants of several half smoked cigarettes.

It smells of a combination of piss and stale spunk.

When the guy on the landing asked him to pay £30 for the use of the room, Clive finally fell in that Monica was a whore. Despite initial feelings of disappointment he still felt horny. What the fuck, he thought. How many chances does a bloke like me get to fuck a bird like this?

Now inside, Monica assumes the weary air of a working girl. 'It's eighty for half an hour, or one-fifty for a full hour.'

'Okay.'

'What's it going to be darling?'

'I think I'd better go for half an hour.'

'Okay.'

Clive doesn't know what he's supposed to do. A pregnant pause hangs in the air until Monica beckons for her money. 'Oh, sorry. You want it upfront.'

'That's normal yeah. We don't want you having such a good time you forget to pay me do we?'

'I understand...'

'Things could get embarrassing couldn't they?'

Clive rifles through his wallet and produces four crisp twenty pound notes fresh from the cash dispenser at Charing Cross Station. The exchange of money makes the whole affair seem even more clinical, a pure business transaction.

To diffuse the awkwardness of the situation, Clive makes a feeble attempt at humour. 'Just printed them today.'

Monica smiles thinly. That's probably the tenth time she's heard that one this month. 'Thanks.' She says taking the money and putting it in her handbag. At least this jerk seems to know how lame he is.

Monica sits on the bed. Clive stands rooted to the spot.

'Do you want to sit here darling?' She pats the bed next to her.

'Oh, right.' He does.

Monica plants a wet kiss on him. He kisses her back hungrily.

He gropes at her tits. They feel hard. Fakies obviously.

The smell of her perfume is intoxicating.

She rubs his cock. He's rock hard. ROCK FUCKING HARD!

Clive can't help thinking that something doesn't feel quite right, but can't put his finger on it.

'I want your cock in me Clive.' She purrs, unzipping his fly and releasing his stiff cock.

He quickly concludes that it's probably just that he hasn't been with a woman in a long time. Or that deep-down he knows that God is always watching and will disapprove.

She begins to wank him off gently.

'You little slut. You love it don't you?'

'Yes, of course I do darling.'

Clive rubs his hand up and down Monica's leg.

Those nagging thoughts wont go away but he continues to ignore them.

He pushes his hand down her knickers and finds out what the problem is. His hand is now involuntarily gripping hold of...

A rather large cock!

A million things fly through Clive's brain all at once as he tries to make sense of what his hand is holding onto. It does not compute. This feels like a cock, but it can't be. Fit birds don't possess big cocks, so what the fuck is he holding onto?

What the fuck?

WHAT THE FUCK!

He jumps To his feet. His cock instantly shrivels.

'WHAT THE FUCK?'

'What's up darling.'

Clive's brain finally catches up with events.

'YOU'VE GOT A COCK!'

'Yeah, and?'

This can't be happening.

'WHAT THE FUCK?'

'Calm down darling, you're freaking me out.'

'WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU?'

'I'm a pre-op darling. Surely you knew.'

'A pre-op? What the fuck is that?'

'I'm a woman trapped in the body of a man, not for much longer...'

'You what?'

Clive wants to punch her/him in the face.

No fuck that! He's going to kill the little cocksucker! He's going to kill the little cocksucker before he can tell anyone what's happened. The little freak will tell everyone! They'll all know he kissed a man.

HE KISSED A FUCKING MAN!

Fuck! He's many things, but he's no fucking queer.

This can't be happening!

FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!

FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!

FUCK! FUCK!FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!

FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!

FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!

Clive gets the fuck out of Dodge.

Outside it's now pissing with rain.

Clive throws up in the gutter. Passers-by laugh at him. They think he's just pissed. Their looks say; Look at that cunt.

FUCK!

Clive can't bear the ignominy of the whole sordid experience. He kissed a man, and held a man's cock in his hand. FUCK! To help clear his head he decides to walk the ten or so miles home instead of getting a train, bus, or taxi.

It's continues pissing with rain.

Clive hopes the rain will cleanse him somehow.

His legs feel like jelly.

He just keeps walking with his head down, unable to look anyone in the eye just in case they can tell...

He wonders if he's a latent homo?

All the way home he rages at himself: 'The first chance you got you had to go sniffing around fanny didn't you Clive? Only it wasn't fucking fanny was it? It was cock! You silly cunt. You silly, silly cunt. Well, you showed me who was boss didn't you Lord? A? You gave me a right fucking kicking didn't you? Harsh but fair. Harsh but fucking fair.'

The rain gets heavier, but Clive doesn't notice. He just keeps trudging on lost in a world of self loathing. 'You're such a cunt Clive. A fucking waste of space...

A degenerate.

A pervert.

A loner.

A loser.

You deserve everything you get.'

Clive arrives home at 4.15 am. Soaking wet, tired and cold. Yet he feels he has to do a penance before he can permit himself to have a shower.

He kneels in front of his altar topless.

' _My grace is sufficient for thee:_

For my strength is made perfect in

weakness. Most gladly therefore

will I rather glory in my

Infirmities, in reproaches, in

necessities, in persecutions, in

distresses for Christ's sake: for

when I am weak, then I am strong.'

He picks up his scourge wrought from stiff twigs.

'The mind is strong, but the flesh is still weak.' With this he proceeds to whip himself twice across the back with force.

'The mind is strong, but the flesh is still weak.' He whips himself twice more.

'FUCK!'

God is always watching.

And he thinks you're a queer.

After the incident with Monica Clive didn't leave the safety of his house for over a week. Most of his time was spent either cleaning, showering or praying for forgiveness.

For the first couple of days he actually convinced himself he was ill, and remained holed-up in bed. However, the reality was that he just couldn't face up to the world. He imagined that everybody could see on his face that he'd kissed a man, and held another man's cock in his hand.

During the week he replayed the whole sorry episode in his head a hundred times. With each repeat Monica's cock grew bigger and bigger in his minds eye, until it seemed ridiculous that he hadn't noticed it. It's a great big fucking cock for Christ's sake!

On the Tuesday following the incident he was due to have another meeting with his parole officer Finch. Despite knowing he could get into serious trouble for missing the appointment, he remained indoors and blew it off. Fuck it!

It was around this time that Clive seriously started to wonder about his ability to cope in the outside world. Things have moved on a lot while he's been away. The world is much tougher now, meaner even. The place is running alive with fucking immigrants and refugees from third world countries and war zones who wouldn't think twice before slitting your throat, or turning you over for the sake of a couple of quid.

The other day in his local shop Clive heard every language under the sun spoken except English. Is this place even fucking Britain anymore or what he raged? It's full of cunts who don't even believe in God. Not his God anyway. They mostly pray to other god's. Impostors.

One night Clive had a dream that deeply disturbed him. In the dream he was like a cock magnet, and various guys kept hitting on him in every bar he went into. It ended up with him getting fucked in the arse by a big black guy with a massive cock (so big it wouldn't all fit in his arse) and he was loving it. But what really freaked him out was that when he woke up he found was covered in his own spunk. That's right, dreaming about getting fucked in the arse by a big fucking nigger had made him come on himself! He concludes that deep down that means he really is some kind of arse bandit.

Now, depressed, scared and alone, Clive's mind dwells on thoughts of self destruction for the first time since he found religion. Was Monica a messenger from God telling him that queer's have no place in the kingdom of heaven? Or is the Lord just taking the piss out of him? Punishing him for his past and present crimes.

_Kanye_ is blaring out of the hi-fi in Clint's flat.

Mary is high. She's trying to sleep on the sofa.

Clint is sitting next to her feeding fried chicken nuggets to his pet staff Winston. Winston is wearing a custom made dog coat styled out of a child's _Nike_ track suit.

There's a knock on the door.

'Get the door Maz.'

She opens her eyes but doesn't move.

'MAZ! Open the door, yeah?' He throws another nugget for the dog who catches it mid-air. This amuses Clint no end. 'Ha, ha.'

Mary opens the door. It's Frank, a twenty-seven year old black drug dealer/pimp associate of Clint's. He walks in ignoring Mary.

'Alright blad?' He says to Clint.

'Alright?' They nudge fists. 'Hey, check this out bruv.' He throws another nugget for Winston who dutifully catches it.

'Mint.'

'Innit. Cunt's got talent, a?'

'Yeah.'

Frank sits down in Mary's vacated seat next to Clint.

'Where am I gonna sit?' Objects Mary.

'Frankie's a guest. Didn't your mother teach you any manners? To Frank: 'You want a beer bruv?'

'Yeah, why not?'

'Get Frankie a Bud Maz.'

'What am I? A fucking slave.'

'What'd I tell you about that talking back shit, a? You speak to me with some fucking respect woman.'

'Alright.'

She get's the beer from the fridge.

Clive is fucking the vicar's bit on the side doggy style over a pew. Her dress is pulled up over her flabby arse, and her pendulous tits are swinging backwards and forwards in time with his thrusts into her.

He's really giving her a good larruping.

Watching from the pulpit and wanking is Colin, the vicar. 'Fuck her harder Clive! It's no use being gentle with the little slut, she likes to be fucked hard. Hard I tell you.'

Clive increases both his pace and vigour. He grabs hold of her tits for extra balance. 'There you little slut! Is that how you like it?'

'She fucking loves it Clive. Tell him you love it.'

'I love it.'

'Tell him what a whore you are.'

'I'm a whore. A dirty little whore.'

Colin comes down from the pulpit with a sizable hard-on. He put's it up to her face, and she starts greedily sucking him off. 'There Clive, do you see? Religious women are the dirtiest fuckers going. A cock in each end and she's still not satisfied...'

Clive comes hard. His semen splatters into the toilet bowl. That, he thinks as he's wiping his cock clean with a piece of toilet roll, was the best wank I've had in ages.

Mary is wigging out on the bed when Clint comes into the bedroom to speak to her. 'Maz?'

No answer.

'MAZ.'

She comes to. '...Yeah?'

'I need you to do me a favour.'

'What?'

'I need you to fuck Frankie for me.' He makes the request in an offhand nonchalant manner, like he's asking her to make him a cup of tea or something equally mundane.

'No fucking way!' Mary doesn't really mind who she fucks, but she doesn't like Frank, he's a nasty bastard.

'Why not?'

'I just don't want to do it, that's all.'

'Why? You've done it before.'

'He hurt me last time.'

'Well, I'll tell him no rough stuff, alright?'

'No, I'm not doing it.'

'I owe him.'

'I don't care. He's into some right freaky shit.'

'Well I've already told him you will. You want me to look like some kind of cunt?'

'...No.'

'Well then.' Clint holds up a wrap of heroin. 'Here, I don't expect you to do it for nothing.'

She takes the wrap, but still isn't happy. Then out of his pocket Clint produces a silver crucifix and chain to seal the deal. 'Here, I was gonna give you this later, but...'

'It's beautiful.'

Clint fixes the chain around Mary's neck. 'There you go.'

She admires it in the mirror. 'No rough stuff?'

'No, I'll tell him to take good care of you.'

'Okay.'

'That's my girl.'

The deal is done.

Clive had seen the advert for a massage service in the window of his local newsagents. It was a plain white card with writing on it in black marker pen that simply read:

BIG BREASTED MATURE MASSAGE

Satisfaction Guaranteed

There was a number underneath which Clive took down. After quite a bit of prevarication he called the number from one of the few remaining public call boxes in the area still in working order.

The woman said her name was Kim and was available to give him a massage at seven o clock. The address was only a few streets away, which was to be expected considering the advert was in a local shop.

Now walking tentatively down the street at ten to seven Clive almost bottles out. Then thinks fuck it. He needs to prove to both himself and God that he's no queer, and this is this is probably the only game in town.

He takes a piece of paper out of his pocket to check the address. Number five, right. He's checked it ten times already but it would be embarrassing to go to the wrong house wouldn't it?

The anticipation is so acute in Clive he can almost taste it. He rings the doorbell and waits anxiously. After a short wait it's answered by a forty-something bottle blonde with a massive rack. 'You must be Clive?' She says in rasping twenty-a-day, South-London accent.

'That's right. You must be Kim?'

'That's me. Come in love.'

Though she's clearly seen plenty of action and is a bit rough around the edges, Kim still looks the part. She's wearing matching black lacy underwear, a see-through black lace dressing gown and black high-heeled shoes. She also reeks of _Opium_ by Yves St Laurent, used to disguise the smell of her previous punters on her. Apparently some people take exception to the smell of old spunk and body odour. Clive always had a thing about _Opium_ because Susan Jones always used to wear it.

As he follows her into the house, Clive imagines all the cock Kim has already had that day, plenty no doubt. An image pops into his head of her being fucked by numerous black men which makes him feel slightly nauseous.

'Do you want a drink Clive?'

'No thanks, I don't drink.'

'Never mind. How about something soft?'

'No thanks, I'm good.'

'You don't mind if I have one do you?'

'No, of course not.'

She beckons towards an armchair. 'Make yourself comfortable love.'

Clive sits down while Kim goes over to a drinks trolley and pours herself a generous measure of gin and tonic. He watches her imagining getting his hands on those enormous tits and begins to get a hard-on. 'How much is it again?'

'£50 for the half hour quickie or £90 for the full one hour girlfriend experience.'

'How about anal?'

'A tenner extra.'

'Will you suck me?'

'I'll suck you _and_ fuck you.' She smiles mischievously and takes a long pull of her drink.

Clive crosses his legs. His hard-on bursting out of his trousers and his eyes burning a hole through her tits.

Let's get it on.

Back in front of his altar Clive feels an utter failure. He elected to go for the full one hour GFE and paid Kim the necessary money. After playing with her tits for a while they retired to the boudoir where she went down on him, giving him probably the best blowjob of his life. The problem came when it was time for him to fuck her.

Just when he was about to penetrate her his hard-on inexplicably disappeared on him. Kim was very understanding and said that it happens to lots of blokes the first time they visit with somebody like her, she reckoned it was because they feel intimidated by the whole paying thing.

She went down on him a second time and the old chap got ready for action again, so far so good. But when he attempts to mount her it fucking shrivels on him again. What the fuck?

He picks up his scourge.

'Lord, I was weak again. I wanted to prove I wasn't a queer and ended up defiling my body with an unclean whore. Forgive me.'

He proceeds to whip himself twice across the back.

'The mind is strong, but the flesh is still weak.'

He whips himself twice more.

'The mind is strong...'

Clive is visiting with his PO Finch again. He hasn't been looking forward to this one little bit. After blowing off his last appointment he received a letter reminding him of his obligation to attend meetings and the consequences if he fails to do so. The letter also asked him to call the office immediately, which he also failed to do.

Now there's a definite chill in the air.

'Where were you last time Clive?'

'I'm sorry about that Mister Finch. I was ill.'

'Ill?'

'Yeah, I was laid up for a week. In bed, you know?'

Finch has heard it all before, he gets losers like Clive skipping appointments all the time. Truth be told, he doesn't give a fuck, why should he, because he's going to rehabilitate them? Fuck off, he's just here to fill out the correct forms, and tick the right boxes.

'What was wrong?'

'Dunno, a bug I suppose.'

'Right.'

What really get on his tits is when they feed him a line of bullshit like this and expect him to buy into it, like he was some kind of dickhead or something. Just admit you was too fucking lazy to get up you cunt. He thinks. Tell the fucking truth.

'Why didn't you call to cancel, I'm very busy you know? Your appointment could have been taken by somebody else.' A lie. Make the little creep squirm a little more.

'I'm sorry, I'm not on the phone Mister Finch. What's the point? Who would call me?'

God maybe, thinks Finch.

'Well you should have a mobile phone at least Clive. They're very cheap these days and you only pay for the calls you make.

'Okay, I'll get one today. How much do they cost?'

'I don't know exactly, I haven't bought one in a while. Not a lot though, you should be able to get one for about £30 I think.'

'Okay, I'll definitely sort it.'

Finch fills out another form and drones on about doing voluntary work again. Clive stopped listening five minutes earlier, he's too busy wondering if Finch can tell that he's had another man's cock in his hand.

'So, that's what we'll do then Clive.'

'Er, yeah.' Whatever.

Later that day Clive goes to the shops to buy a mobile phone. He's overwhelmed by the choice at first, but a young sales assistant takes the time to explain things and go through the various options with him.

Clive considers he was very nice for a Paki.

He really only wanted a basic phone, but after Ash explains the benefits of the latest Nokia N96 Quartz phone he stumps up the £329.95 asking price for one. It has a 5 million pixel camera, a built-in MP3 player, GPS satellite navigation, Bluetooth (whatever that is), internet access and a whole bunch of other stuff he's bound to need.

To sweeten the deal, Ash throws in a free leather case and Pay As You Go SIM card.

When Clive was paying for the phone he could see the other customers throwing him admiring glances. It made him feel good.

Back home, Clive is sitting on the sofa with his new phone. The contents of the box are strewn on the floor in front of him and he's poring over the manual trying to make sense of it.

It all seemed so simple when Ash showed him before. Now he can't even seem to switch the bastard on. 'FUCK IT!' He goes to throw it, then remembers about the £329.95.

Maybe I can go back to the shop and get Ash to show me again, he thinks, then quickly changes his mind. No, fuck it. I'll look like some kind of cunt if I do that.

He decides to take it along to his next meeting with Finch. He should be able to help with that at least. He's fuck all good for anything else.

This morning before the crack of dawn, Clive went over to a local woodland where he used to play as a child. He returned home with a decayed plastic Tupperware box.

It's now sitting on his dining room table, covered in mud.

Clive contemplates it for a while, then pops the lid open and peers inside. It contains a thick plastic bag full of stuff.

He's sweaty, tense.

He opens the bag and empties the contents onto the table. It contains two thick books, and several pairs of womens panties in various sizes and colours. The smell of the pants hits Clive almost immediately. The damp odour of mildew fills his nostrils. They're fucked, he thinks as he places them back inside the bag.

The books however, are in remarkable condition considering they've been buried for more than twenty-five years. These are Clive's diaries, books containing details of his sexual life from the age of fifteen through to his incarceration five years later. Unlike a traditional diary the writing is in no particular order. Details of sexual exploits (real and imagined) vie for space with random thoughts on women and sex. His mind poured out unexpurgated onto the pages if you like.

Clive picks up one of the diaries and begins leafing through the pages. It's constructed with the same meticulous care that he employed with his altar, and the result is similarly chaotic. Page after page of writing is juxtaposed with faded Polaroid pictures, newspaper cuttings, drawings and even a lock of hair.

The pictures all feature naked or semi-naked women. Terrified women, in the midst of, or directly after, violation.

Clive reads one of the diary entries: What is it with really good looking women. They seem to walk about with a perpetual sneer on their faces, and their nose up in the air as if they've just stepped in something. What the fuck is wrong with them? If you've been blessed with looks like that shouldn't you be happy about it? I'd like to see what they look like when they're getting fucked. I bet they don't look like that with a cock up them.

He turns a page. The headline on a newspaper cutting reads:

A2 RAPIST STRIKES AGAIN!

22 year old women becomes beast's fourth victim.

Underneath is a Polaroid of a women naked to the waist staring blankly up at the camera. It has dried white spunk across it where Clive relived the moment weeks later.

On another page the headline reads:

IS THIS THE FACE OF THE A2 RAPIST?

Police release picture.

Underneath is a dodgy photo-fit that doesn't look anything like Clive. In fact, it doesn't really look like anybody and yet like most photo-fits, it could almost be anybody.

Looking through the diaries Clive feels a strange mixture of regret, shame and lust. Re-reading the entries and looking at the pictures is turning him on again. He'll probably have a wank later.

He looks up to the heavens. 'Jesus, forgive me.'

In his head he can hear the judge sentencing him: _Clive Walker, I have no doubt that you will represent a very real danger to women for the foreseeable future. With this in mind, I sentence you to the maximum term available to me under the law: Life imprisonment. I also recommend that you not be made eligible for parole until you have served a minimum of twenty years imprisonment._

A light goes on in one of the upstairs bedrooms. Clive has been watching the house for a couple of hours already and it's now dark. In the illuminated room he can see what he's been waiting for. The young girl from the church is framed in the window like the Madonna in a stained glass window. Since he hasn't been attending church lately, it seems like forever since he has laid eyes on her exquisite beauty. Now he feels a stirring in his loins as he watches her try on a new blouse in front of the mirror on her wardrobe.

The inherent wrongness of lusting after an underage girl adds immensely to the fissure of sexual tension Clive felt. He was never a nonce in the past, but somehow this felt different. He knows that deep down this angel is nothing but a whore, just like all the rest of them, and what's more, he will prove it. 'I will own you my beauty. Then I will soil you. Then I will degrade you.' If she is somehow made unclean, then surely his own transgressions will be assuaged? How wrong can it be to be tempted by a whore. He's only human after all.

He can only see her from behind but the sight of her black bra straps against the pure white skin of her back is too much for Clive. He takes his cock out and begins stroking it as he continues to watch. 'I will own you. Then I will soil you. Then I will degrade you.'

Despite his bad experience with Monica, like a moth to the flame Clive returns to the streets of Soho. He's had a lot of good times there in the past, why let one bad experience with a deviant spoil things?

The streets are strewn with puke, beer bottles, free newspapers and half-eaten takeaways. Walking down Berwick Street Clive takes it all in with disdain.

If he sees that sick cunt again he's going to do what he should have done before. He'll cut his fucking cock off, and save him the trouble and expense of an operation.

Pre-op, my arse!

He sees a young woman totally out of it pissing in an alley, her urine soiled knickers around her ankles.

Her friend who is standing guard notices Clive looking. 'What the fuck you looking at? FUCK OFF!'

Clive pauses for a moment continuing to watch, shocked by both the view and the woman's course language. Then moves on.

The friend shouts after him. 'That's right. Fuck off you perv.'

The sight of the woman pissing with her knickers round her ankles has not only shocked Clive, it's also aroused him. If the pisser had been on her own he would have dragged her down the alley and given her a good fucking. The filthy little slag would have probably enjoyed it as well.

' _You want to come in love? We've got lots of nice girls inside.'_

' _What is this place?' Clive asks. 'A bar?'_

' _Yeah, but with lots of nice girls. You'll like it.'_

'One drink, maybe two. It'll be fine.' He thinks.

' _You gonna buy me a drink?'_

' _Okay. What do you want?'_

' _This is a champagne bar. We only serve Champagne here.'_

' _Champagne! How much is that?'_

She ignores the question. 'What's your name love?'

' _Clive.'_

' _Hi Clive, I'm Honey.'_

' _Alright?'_

Clive's eye's naturally find their way onto Honey's ample breasts. He was always a tit man. If they're on display, you've got to look haven't you? It'd be rude not to.

He knows God will disapprove, but he's only looking after all.

She's got great tits.

He imagines cupping them, and tweaking the nipples.

He imagines sucking them, and licking the sweat from underneath.

He imagines coming on them.

' _Do you wanna dance with me Clive?'_

' _No thanks, I don't dance.'_

' _Never mind.'_

She puts her hand on his leg and starts rubbing his inner thigh near his cock. He begins to get a hard-on. 'Anything else you wanna do?' She licks her lips provocatively.

Clive looks at her as incredulously. Does this retarded cunt know who she's dealing with? He wonders. 'You should be careful. You don't know anything about me.'

' _You look friendly enough to me.'_

' _I must be strong.' Thinks Clive, but his cock keeps growing. 'Lord, help me. Give me strength. For fuck's sake.'_

She keeps rubbing. He keeps growing.

He imagines his cock between those painted ruby lips.

He feels super-horny.

There's no way this babe has a dick.

He fucks her in the cunt, pinning her down by her neck with his forearm as he does. All his weight bearing down on her, stopping her from moving as if he's fucking a piece of dead meat. 'Is that what you wanted you dirty fucking whore?'

He fucks her in the arse, pulling her hair with his left hand and slapping her arse hard with his right. 'You love it like this don't you? You dirty little slut!'

Back to reality.

'Well Clive, what do you say?'

We're back in the bar. It was a daydream.

Honey is now rubbing his fully erect cock.

He loses his bottle. 'I've got to go.'

'But you just got here.'

He moves her hand from his cock. 'I'm sorry I've got to go.'

'Suit yourself.'

'Can I have...'

She already waving to the barman. 'The bill.'

He comes over with a piece of paper on another silver tray.

Clive turns over the paper. Fuck! £140 on top of the £20 he paid to get in. It's broken down on the bill: Champagne £70, hostess chat £50, seating £20.

'Is this some kind of joke?' He asks incredulously.

'No. We take cash or credit cards.' The barman replies.

Another gorilla appears at his shoulder. 'Any trouble?'

'There's no trouble,' says Honey. 'Clive is just about to pay. Aren't you Clive?'

Too right he is.

Back in front of his altar, topless. He feels dirty, depressed. A failure.

' _Lord, forgive me. I failed you again.' He picks up a bunch of hazel twigs fashioned together._

' _The mind is strong, but the flesh is still weak.' With this he proceeds to whip himself across the back with force. He grimaces from the pain._

' _The mind is strong, but the flesh is still weak.' He whips himself twice more. Red welts begin to appear on his skin._

' _The mind is strong, but the flesh is still weak...'_

An anonymous light blue Ford Focus is parked on a piece of barren wasteland. It's rocking to and fro.

Inside Mary is lying on the backseat with her skirt hitched up around her waist, and her shirt pulled up exposing her breasts. A fat man in his late thirties is on top of her giving her a good seeing-too. He's really going for it, In his head he's Casanova, Don Juan and Ron Jeremy all rolled into one.

He tries to kiss her, but she turns her head to the side avoiding his kiss. She doesn't do kissing with punters, it's too intimate. She knows some girls do, the ones who offer the full girl friend experience, but they're proper professionals.

Mary doesn't actually consider herself a pro you see, more of an amateur really. She's usually too wasted to put in the required effort that serious prostitutes do. There's no fake orgasms or heavy panting from her, or telling them that: of course I enjoy it, especially when it's with a stud like you, or: Don't stop! Whatever you do, don't stop fucking me! The standard stock in trade of the professional whore. No, Mary usually just lays there and gets humped, a bit like fucking a dead horse really. If you're into that sort of thing, she's your girl.

He tries to kiss her again, but once more she turns her head away. 'What's up with you?' He demands.

No answer.

'I'm paying you good money for this. The least you could do is show willing.'

'I don't kiss punters.'

'Why not?'

'I just don't. Some girls do and they charge extra for it. I don't.'

He grabs hold of her hair and pulls it hard.

'Owww, what the fuck?'

'I want kissing. Haven't you ever heard the expression the customer is always right?' He forces his mouth against hers. She feels his fat tongue probing at the back of her throat.

The struggle and the forced intimacy seems to send the guy over the edge. He comes noisily. 'You fucking little slag!'

After the guy has come he just lays there for ages pressing the life out of her with his considerable bulk.

'Can you get off me please?'

In the days following the incident at the clip joint, Clive is plagued by a growing sense of angst, and a deep, all-consuming depression. Despite all his best intentions, any attempt he's made to form a relationship with another human being since leaving prison has ended in both abject failure, and more than a little humiliation.

Fundamental questions gnaw away at him:

Why has God forsaken him?

Will he ever be able to atone for his past sins?

What's the meaning/point of life?

Clive comes to the conclusion that for him, there probably isn't one. Then a new thought enters his head: To end it all. Why not put an end to this farce once and for all? Then there will be no more fear, no more failure, no more fear of failure, no more worries, no more loneliness and no more bullshit.

Just nothing.

Clive pushes these thoughts of suicide to the back of his head, but they refuse to stay there and keep coming back. Each time the voice in his head trying to convince him of the merits of ending it all, becomes a little more persuasive. And each time the voice trying to stop him, becomes a little less assured. Little by little the thought keeps growing in his head until it seems not only the obvious thing to do, but also the most logical.

That's it then, time to call it a day.

Having made the final decision, the thought gives Clive a genuine sense of comfort. He feels like he's climbed up a ladder and kicked it from beneath him. There's no going back now.

But how should the deed be carried out?

Killing oneself requires serious consideration. Clive contemplates the manner of his demise for several days. Preferably the method employed should be both quick and painless. He considers several possibilities seriously; an overdose, cutting his wrists, jumping off a bridge or tall building, jumping in front of a train, etc, before settling on the tried and tested old favourite of hanging. Mister Walker, you shall be taken to a place of execution, where you will be hung by the neck until you are dead.

Amen.

Clive cuts the chord off of an old light that no longer works. He fashions one end into a noose, and attaches the other end to the overhead light fitting in the front room. To test that it will take his weight he swings back and forth on it like an ape.

It holds.

A man's death demands a certain amount of privacy. With this in mind Clive draws the curtains, not that anybody is likely to look in, then pulls a dining chair directly underneath the noose to stand on.

With all the preparations made, Clive stands back to admire his handiwork. It's a gruesome and frightening sight. The hairs on the back of his neck stand to attention with the realisation that the bare wooden chair makes the scene reminiscent of old photographs of electric chairs and gas chambers he's seen.

The chair says to him: Death is waiting.

Not long now...

In front of his altar. 'Lord, if you have need of me then please give me a sign to let me know that the course I've chosen isn't necessary.'

He waits.

Nothing. What did he expect?

'Very well...

Our Father who art in heaven,

hallowed be thy name.

Thy kingdom come.

thy will be done,

on earth as it is in heaven

Give us this day our daily bread.

And forgive us our trespasses,

as we forgive those who trespass against us.

And lead us not into temptation,

but deliver us from evil.

For thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory, for ever and ever.

Amen.'

Back in the front room Clive once again contemplates his date with the noose. This is what his life has come down to, a lonely end in his own front room. He looks around considering that these are the last things he will ever set his eyes upon. It seems an ignominious end to a pathetic life.

'Last chance Lord. Just give me a sign...Anything.'

Nothing.

'Thine will be done.'

He climbs onto the chair and fixes the noose around his neck.

He hasn't bothered writing a suicide note considering there's no-one who gives a shit anyway.

No-one will miss him.

No-one will mourn him.

No-one will remember him.

He wonders how long it will be before his body is found. Days? No weeks probably. Finch will probably issue a warrant for his arrest for failing to attend his meetings and a couple of coppers will be sent round to drag him back to prison. Well, those cunts will get more than they bargained for, that's for sure.

A moments hesitation, then he kicks away the chair.

The chord tightens around his neck instantly. It hurts.

It really fucking hurts.

He hopes he doesn't shit himself. He's heard that's what happens to people who hang...

Fuck it hurts.

It really fucking hurts.

He gasps for breath, and involuntarily pulls at the chord with both hands. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all...

God help me.

For fucks sake...

With panic rising up in him Clive begins thrashing his legs about furiously as he continues to claw at the noose. But it's to no avail. The chord tightens even harder around his neck and his vision starts to narrow as he begins to lose consciousness.

Suddenly Clive hears a cracking sound from above him. He looks up to see what's happening just as the light fitting is ripped from the ceiling. He comes crashing down to the ground followed closely by a torrent of plaster and debris. He's saved.

Slightly dazed, he looks up at the gaping hole in the ceiling. 'There's my sign.' He begins to laugh uncontrollably. 'Ha, ha, ha, there's my sign. Thank you Lord.'

'THERE'S MY FUCKING SIGN!'

O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory? The sting of death is sin; and the strength of sin is the law. But thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory through the Lord Jesus Christ. Corinthians 15:55-57

Clive sits down on the dusty sofa to contemplate the enormity of the afternoons events. He feels like Lazarus risen up from the dead. Except that he hadn't actually been dead. Well, not dead, dead anyway. More like the walking dead. A fucking zombie. A feeling of warmth and wellbeing permeates his whole body as he begins to come to terms with the fact that God had personally reached down and saved him from oblivion. The implications were enormous. He was now in the gang. A true disciple of the Lord. How many people receive that kind of vindication?

But if God had spared him, then to what end?

He'd taken a leap of faith and the Lord had saved him. Therefore, he must have a higher purpose for him. A task he must perform. But what? 'What do you want from me Lord?' He implores the heavens. 'How can I repay you?'

At that moment a fly that had been buzzing around the room lands on his knee and stares at him. Clive looks at it and just knows that this is his sign. This is his burning bush. But what does it mean?

Time stands still. The fly stares at him for what seems like an eternity. Clive imagines it talking to him in a loud disembodied Godlike voice; what the fuck is wrong with you? Don't you get it? Are you thick or something? A moron?

Then in a moment of pure clarity it comes to him. He brings his hand down and splatters the fly against his knee...

He was pest control.

He had been presented with his task weeks ago, only at the time he was too ignorant to see it. He had to rid the world of an abomination. An atrocity. That sick cunt Monica had to die, he was sure of it. Yes, and he would be the instrument of his doom. The implementation of the Lord's wrath. There's no place for freaks like that in the kingdom of Heaven that's for sure. A woman with a dick? No, a woman whore with a dick. What the fuck? Once I was blind, but now I can see.

In carrying out his task, Clive knew he would not only be ridding the world of an aberration. He will also be wiping his own slate clean, allowing him to take his place at God's right hand come judgement day.

A new start.

A proper new start.

Clive prepares for his task.

He rakes through his mother's cutlery drawer looking for the perfect weapon. His eye is immediately drawn to a large serrated carving knife. He holds it in his hand feeling the weight and balance. 'This will do nicely', he says to himself as he imagines gutting Monica with it.

He puts on his jacket and slips the knife up the left sleeve to conceal it. However, it's a bit too long and doesn't allow him to bend his arm if it's pushed all the way in so that it isn't poking out of the bottom of the sleeve. Fuck. He'll have to choose a smaller one which he's sure won't be nearly as effective.

He replaces it in the drawer and selects a smaller straight edged carving knife instead. This too feels good in his hand, and more importantly, fit's snugly up his sleeve allowing him to bend his arm. Nobody will even know it's there.

He withdrawers the knife from his sleeve and holds it in his hand, smiling to himself as he imagines the look on Monica's face when she/he sees him again. 'That's right you freak, it's me. I bet you never expected to see me again did you?

...Fucking queer!'

He stabs and swings the knife a few times. It feels good. No, it feels right. 'I'm gonna cut your fucking dick off with this you sick cunt! What do you think of that, a? It's no fucking use to anyone is it?'

He swings the knife a couple of more times and imagines stabbing Monica in the arse. 'You want to beg for you life do you? Don't bother.'

He fixes the knife to his left forearm using masking tape to secure it. Then replaces the jacket. 'Remember me? Do you?' He reaches into his sleeve and produces the knife in one effortless movement. 'You're going straight to hell.'

He laughs to himself as he imagines his vengeance.

'Die, you piece of fucking shit. Die!'

A few days later and Clive is in the West End looking for Monica. It's time for that freak to pay the penalty for his miserable existence. Time for him to meet his maker. Judgement day. I will punish you according to the results of your deeds.

As he's walking down Old Compton Street heading for the bar he met her in, Clive see's everything with fresh eyes. All around him he can see men holding hands or talking intimately outside cafés. What the fuck?

In the bar he orders a beer and sits down in a booth to wait. Now it dawns on him why there were no other men like him here before. 'They're all fucking queers, he thinks. For fucks sake! He settles down for an uncomfortable wait. Occasionally fingering the knife through his sleeve for reassurance.

Two hours later and there's no sign of Monica.

He's had enough of the company of queers and decides to approach the bar. 'Excuse me, I don't know if you can help me, but I'm looking for someone.'

'Aren't we all?'

'She's a regular.' To call Monica a she really sticks in his throat. 'Monica.'

'I don't know her.'

'Dark hair, Italian looking.'

'Sorry.'

'A pre-op.'

The barman shakes his head.

'Okay, thanks anyway.'

'No worries.'

Clive breathes in the fresh air outside, glad to be out of the stifling heat of the bar. He heads back to Charing Cross station vowing to return in a few days time to continue looking for Monica. And then a few days after that if necessary. And so on, and so on.

On the way he decides to take a little detour and walks down Rupert Street past the clip joint that stitched him up previously. His heart skips a beat when he sees that the girl outside soliciting trade this time is Honey, the whore who was party to his humiliation before.

As he passes by their eyes meet, though Honey doesn't register any kind of recognition. 'You want to come in love?' She says to him blankly as if seeing him for the first time.

Fuck me. Clive thinks to himself, his anger rising. It's only been a couple of weeks, and already she's forgotten me. How many more mugs has she fleeced since then? Fifty? A hundred?

Having gained Clive's attention, Honey continues with her spiel. 'We've got lot's of nice girls inside. You'll have fun.'

'Will I?'

'Yeah, you will. There's. music and dancing...'

'I've been here before.'

'Oh.'

There's an awkward silence. Honey looks away. Clive continues to stare at her. 'Oh, is that all you can say to me?'

'What do you want me to say?'

'Sorry, would be good.'

'Do you want to come in or what?'

'What do you think?'

Her attention switches to a group of three drunken men who are eyeing her up. 'You want to come in lads? We've got lots of nice girls inside...'

Clive interrupts her. 'Don't you remember me?'

'No, I don't.'

'You lot stitched me up only a couple of weeks ago.'

'If you don't go away I'm gonna call security.'

'Whatever.' Clive turns to the drunks. 'I wouldn't bother if I were you lads. It's a total fucking rip-off in there!'

Honey shouts down the stairs. 'SERGEI? WE'VE GOT A BIT OF TROUBLE UP HERE.'

Clive heads off towards Shaftsbury Avenue, but calls back over his shoulder. 'And they've all got the pox and all.'

Honey tries to placate the three men. 'I don't even know who he is lads. I've never seen him before.'

At the bottom of the road Clive pauses and looks back to see the men have changed their minds and are heading off in the opposite direction. Another gorilla in a suit has now joined Honey and is looking towards Clive with a bad look on his face.

Clive doesn't hang around. Seeing that whore again has stirred up a genuine anger in him. He heads off down Shaftsbury Avenue and goes into a coffee shop to consider his next course of action. If that freak Monica has to pay for her sins, then surely that whore has to as well?

After pondering his next move for a while, Clive decides to wait for Honey to leave for home and follow her. Then she'll get what's coming to her.

It's nearly three hours later before Clive spots Honey heading off home wearing a full-length trench coat. He smiles to himself as he recounts the old joke in his head; I almost didn't recognise her with her clothes on.

In those three hours he's had to decline offers from two whores, a drug dealer and a born-again Christian who wanted to save his soul. Not to mention an aggressive drunk who wanted to start a fight with him. If it hadn't been for the drunk's friend dragging him off Clive would have been forced to stab the cunt and blow his task. The stupid fuck didn't realise how close he came to dying.

Remembering what he'd seen in the movies, Clive follows Honey from across the street, and about twenty yards back so as not to arouse her suspicion. Though truth be told she seems totally unaware of anything around her and doesn't look back once.

Walking behind Honey, Clive feels imperious knowing he has the power of life and death over her. He can do whatever he wants to the stupid whore and there's nothing she can possibly do to stop him. He could drag her down a deserted alley and fuck her senseless, or use his knife to end her worthless life there and then.

She'd made out she was nice, that she liked him, then turned on him with those other bastards and made him look like a right cunt. The slag. Now she was going to have to pay for what she did. Clive almost felt sorry for the silly cow as he plotted her downfall. How could she realise the consequences of what she was doing when she fucked with him? Though surely it was inevitable in her line of business that she would eventually pick on the wrong person wasn't it?

It's now so late that even the throng of the West End crowds have abated. Honey cuts through Chinatown and down a deserted alley that's almost pitch black. Where the fuck is she going? Clive thinks to himself. Then realising this is the chance he's been waiting for, he speeds up and begins closing on her rapidly.

Clive's heart begins to beat faster as he closes right behind Honey. He's now so close he can smell her perfume. It's the same perfume she had on before and he realises for the first time that he has a hard-on.

The sound of his feet clattering on the pavement sound to Clive as loud as a drum. Louder and louder they sound as he gains on her, yet still Honey seems oblivious to his impending presence. Then when he's close enough to her to reach out and touch her he can see why...

He see's wire's coming out of her ears that disappear into her coat pocket. She's obviously in a world of her own listening to music and the attack will be a complete surprise to her. Excellent. Clive always hated runners, especially now he's much older and out of shape. If she got wind of him and darted he's not sure he could catch her.

He glances over his shoulder to be sure nobody is about then decides to strike. He takes the knife out of his left sleeve and holds it in his right hand. Then, reaching out with his left hand he grabs hold of Honey's hair and yanks hard backwards dragging her to the ground. She cries out in shock. 'Owww. What the fuck!'

Clive throws Honey onto her back and kicks her hard in the stomach. She doubles over in pain. Leaning menacingly over her he spits out the question: 'Remember me whore?'

When Honey doesn't answer because of the pain she's in, he leans down closer, holds the knife in her face and asks the question again. 'I said, remember me whore?'

'What do you want?'

'Do you ever do any actual fucking, or are you just a prick teaser?'

'Please. Don't hurt me!'

'You and your mates took me for a hundred and sixty quid. Now it's time for you to earn that money.'

'I'll do whatever you want. Just don't hurt me.'

'Now you'll do whatever I want? Well, you know what? I wouldn't want to fuck a pox ridden whore like you anyway...' He unzips his fly and sticks his cock in Honey's face. 'But you can suck my dick.'

Clive puts the knife behind Honey's neck and eases her head forward onto his dick with it. She takes it into her mouth and begins sucking mechanically. 'Put some effort in slag.' Clive berates her. 'A hundred and sixty quid for a blowjob should buy me the Rolls Royce of fellatio.'

Trying desperately to save her life Honey starts putting some real effort into the blowjob which is too much for Clive in his heightened state of arousal. After about thirty seconds he ejaculates, pumping semen into Honey's mouth. At the same time he plunges the knife deep into her neck. 'There you cunt! Take that!'

In a deep state of shock Honey falls onto her back clutching her neck, with blood pumping from the wound and semen dribbling from her mouth.

Clive watches her for a few seconds as he puts his cock away. Then wipes the knife clean on Honey's coat before replacing it up his left sleeve and walking off leaving her to bleed to death in the darkness of the alley.

Doctor James picks up his clipboard. 'Right Clive, let's talk some more about Susan Jones shall we?'

'Okay.'

'When did you first start stealing her underwear?'

'When I was about fourteen or fifteen, I think.'

'And what were the circumstances.'

'Well, we used to be friends when we were younger, but as time went on she became increasingly distant, eventually ignoring me altogether...'

'How did that make you feel? Did it anger you?'

'Not really, no. I didn't give it much thought at the time. It was just the way it was, you know?'

'Okay, so what do you think was the catalyst for your sexual interest in her?'

'Well, the thing is, she grew into a real sort...'

'You mean she was attractive?'

'Yeah, she had a real set on her, you know?' He holds his hands up in front of his chest as if cupping an imaginary pair of breasts. 'Even at that age...'

'And she would have been what, thirteen or fourteen?'

'Yeah.'

'Okay.' James makes a note in his pad. 'Please continue.'

'Well, like I told you before, she was the girl next door so even though she was fit, I didn't really take that much notice of her. That is, until one night when I was at the bottom of our garden sneaking a crafty fag. I was in Dad's shed minding my own business when I see Susan's bedroom light go on...' Clive takes a swig from a bottle of water for dramatic effect.

'...for some reason she didn't pull the curtains, and I'm watching her as she unbuttons her blouse thinking; she's not going to take that off with the curtains open and the light on, surely? But she did. Now I'm really interested...'

'How close was the bedroom to where you were?'

'Really close. Like fifteen or twenty feet. She was right next door and the gardens aren't that big.'

'You weren't worried about being seen?'

'A little, but that only added to it.'

'Okay.'

'Anyway, then she turns to the window, unhooks her bra and takes that off as well. It was like she was putting on a private show just for me. I'm standing there looking at these fucking orbs of wonder thinking, fuck me!'

'You were excited?'

'Fucking right I was. I whipped my cock out and started wanking furiously. This was the first time I'd seen an actual pair of tits apart from my mother's. I remember it like it was yesterday. After that I went down the shed regularly in the hope it would happen again, but it never did.'

'So this incident ignited your sexual interest in her?'

'Yeah, I suppose so. I fantasised about her nearly every day after that. If I'm honest, I still do from time to time.'

James notes that down in his pad. 'Go on.'

'I started keeping a diary where I'd write down my fantasies about what I'd like to do to her...'

'Did these fantasies involve rape?'

'No, not at first. They were written like she was my girlfriend.'

'Okay.'

'Anyway, I'm in the garden one day a little later when I see some of her knickers hanging on the line. I knew everyone was out of her house, so I climbed over and stole a pair. Nice white ones they were.'

'You were sure they belonged to her?'

'Oh yeah, she was an only-child like me, and her mother was a big old lump. They were Susan's alright.'

'And what did you do with them? Were they primarily an aid for masturbation? Or did you want them for other things?'

'I sniffed them when I had a wank, yeah. And I put them on...'

'Why was that?'

'I wanted something that had been near her cunt touching my cock. It was exciting. Like I had a piece of her.'

'And the fact that they were stolen excited you as well?'

'Of course it did. I took a few more pairs off the line, but eventually I got bored with that, and decided to step things up...'

'You started breaking into her house then?'

'Yeah.'

'That's a big step. Moving up to breaking and entering.'

'It didn't seem like it at the time. Being as it was only next door and all. Mum had a spare set of keys she kept in the cutlery drawer in case of emergencies, so it wasn't even that difficult.'

Clive's mind wanders back into the past...

...We're back in time thirty years with the fifteen year old Clive as he lets himself into Susan's house with the spare key. He knows full well that it's empty, but calls out anyway just to be sure. 'Hello... Is there anyone home...Hello.'

There's no reply, so he goes in.

His heart is pounding as he goes upstairs to poke around.

In the master bedroom he rifles through the drawers and finds a large black vibrator shaped like an overgrown cock. He hopes it belongs to Mrs Jones rather than Mr Jones. It smells like it's been used recently. He turns it on and holds it against his balls before replacing it exactly the way he found it.

Under the bed he finds some discarded condom packets and a stash of low-end porno mags. After flicking through a few, he steals the best looking one for himself.

Doctor James cuts in: 'Why didn't you go straight into Susan's room? Did you have sexual feelings towards her mother as well?'

'No. This was like foreplay...'

'And you equated entering her room, with entering her?'

'I don't know. I just wanted to delay it for as long as I dared. By that point I felt so horny I had to go into the bathroom and have a wank, because I was afraid If I didn't I'd end up coming in my pants.'

Clive enters Susan's room at last and notes it smells of peaches. The thrill of violation is now so powerful that despite having just masturbated he has another hard on.

He begins by laying on her bed and smelling her pillow. Then he starts rifling through her drawers wondering if he'll find a vibrator in them as well.

There's no dildo, but he does find Susan's diary tucked amongst her clean underwear in the bottom drawer. He flicks through and has a quick read, but there's little of interest so he decides to stop delaying the focus of his attention that he saw as soon as he entered the room...

In the corner of the room by the window is Susan's laundry basket. He lifts the lid and peers inside. Underneath a couple of white school blouses he finds several pairs of dirty knickers and bras.

He inspects them all, smelling each one in turn...

...We're back to the present in Doctor James office.

Clive continues: 'The best pair had a slight yellow discharge in them. They smelt musky, like sex. I took them home with me.'

'How many times did you break in altogether?'

'Four times, then I got caught. I remember it was a very hot day and I was tired. After I'd picked out the knickers I wanted from the laundry basket that day I made the mistake of lying down on her bed to have a wank...'

'You fell asleep?'

Clive smiles ruefully at the memory. 'Yeah, she came home with her parents to find me asleep on the bed. I had my cock in my hand, and her knickers on my face.'

Clive focuses intently on the hymn book he's holding if front of him, not daring to look away from the pages at the temptation laid before him. There's a droning noise in the background that he realises is the vicar continuing with his sermon.

He chances a sneaky glance to his left out of the corner of his eye. Next to him is the young angel he fantasised about before wearing the same floral dress. He can't help thinking that her tits appear to be bigger.

Clive wonders why she's next to him and not with her family in the next row. Is she looking at him?

The sight of her perfect white flesh arouses him, and he once again imagines slipping his hand between her legs.

She seems to read his mind. Smiling, she takes his hand and places it under her dress. He instinctively rubs his middle fingers on the gusset of her knickers. They're soaking wet. He works a finger down the side of her knickers and slides one into her moist cunt. She gives out a barely audible moan as she closes her eyes and bites her bottom lip.

His cock is bursting out of his trousers.

He fingers her clit. She moans slightly louder.

The congregation stand and begin to sing Abide With Me again.

Reluctantly Clive stands up to join them.

' _Abide with me, fast falls the eventide;_

The darkness deepens, Lord with me abide!

When other helpers fail and comforts flee,

Help of the helpless, O abide with me.'

Lolita is on her knees now giving Clive an expert blowjob. He watches her head bobbing up and down rhythmically. Where'd the little slut learn to do that? He thinks to himself as he puts his hand on the back of her head to push her deeper onto his shaft. To his surprise she doesn't gag, but instead takes his full length down deep into her throat like a seasoned porn actress. I knew she was a little whore, he thinks.

Clive looks around to see if any of the other parishioners are looking but they're all too busy singing.

' _Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day;_

Earth's joys grow dim, it's glories pass away;

Change and decay in all around I see;

O thou who changes not, abide with me.'

On the verge of coming Clive looks down again, but it's not the girl sucking his dick now. It's his mother!

'WHAT THE FUCK!'

Their eyes meet.

Clive wakes with a start.

He's on the sofa with the telly on.

'Shit.'

CLIVE IS BACK IN HELL!

He sips his beer and looks around. Sodomites surround him infecting the air with their HIV and AIDS.

He really didn't want to come back to this bar again but how else can he find Monica? He has a task to complete, and even this is a small price to pay to do God's work.

He checks his watch. He's been here for close on four hours already and still no sign of the freak. He considers asking the people next to him, but can't get up enough nerve. Then he has an idea...

He's not sure why he didn't think of it before. He'll go to the place in Peter Street where Monica took him. The guy on the desk seemed to be familiar with her/him, and maybe he has a phone number or address?

When he gets there the sight of the place makes Clive feel slightly nauseas. Despite this he summons all his courage and enters. The Lord will watch over him after all.

He sees the same guy who collected the money from him before is there again reading a copy of The Mirror. A mean looking, pit-bull of a man. Clive approaches him with some trepidation. Under normal circumstances this is the sort of man you avoid eye contact with, let alone engage in conversation, but needs must.

The guy watches Clive approach him with interest over the top of his paper. 'Hi.' Clive says casually.

'What can I do for you?'

'I'm looking for someone, Monica.'

'Who?'

'Monica, you know?'

'No, I don't know. I mind my own business.'

Clive decides the guy is after money. He's seen enough detective shows on TV to know as much. '...How much?'

'You what?'

'How much for you to stop minding your own business?'

The guy sizes Clive up for a moment, then: 'A pony should jog something loose.'

'£25?'

'Yeah, a pony.'

Clive looks in his wallet. 'I haven't got any fivers.'

'Thirty then.' He throws a cheesy grin.

Clive reluctantly hands over the money. This is God's work after all. 'Where can I find her?'

'You had a good time with her did you?'

'I just need to find her, that's all.'

'Well, I haven't seen Mike in about a week.'

'You know where she, he lives?'

'Now why would I know where a fairy lives?

Clive feels humiliated. He wishes he had the minerals to lean over the table and chin the big cunt. And I'll take my fucking money back and all! But of course he doesn't...

He turns to leave. 'Thanks for nothing.'

Just as he gets to the door the guy calls after him. 'I'd try looking in the morgue if I was you.'

'The morgue?'

'Yeah, he's brown.'

'Dead? How? When?'

'A couple of days ago. He was kicked to death by a bunch of fucking niggers doing a spot of queer-bashing...It was in this mornings Metro if you're that interested.'

Clive feels numb. He'd fucked about so much that God gave the task to someone else who managed to get the job done. Another failure. What a cunt! He's so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he doesn't hear the pit-bull begin singing Lola by the Kinks as he goes back to reading his paper: 'Well I'm not dumb but I can't understand. Why she walked like a woman and talked like a man.'

Clive strides down the carriage of the Charing Cross to Dartford train looking for a copy of the Metro free newspaper. However, this late in the day it's proving difficult to find one.

He spots something under a seat and expectantly retrieves it, only to find it's a copy of the Evening Standard. 'Fuck.' He mutters under his breath, then flicks through the pages hoping they've also covered the story of Monica's death.

There's nothing.

Throwing it down on the nearest seat Clive begins his search once again. Halfway through the next carriage he comes across a woman reading a copy of the paper in question. After debating whether to continue looking for his own copy, he eventually decides to take the seat opposite her and wait for her to discard it. Most people do, don't they?

At Greenwich she gets up to leave the train still clutching the paper in her right hand. The tight cunt is keeping it, Clive thinks to himself. If he doesn't say something now he could lose his only chance.

Spurred on by necessity he acts. 'Excuse me?' The woman doesn't seem to hear him. He speaks again. Louder this time. 'Excuse me?'

Unused to strangers on the train talking to her, the woman looks blankly back at him. Undeterred Clive continues. 'I was wondering if I could have your paper.' He gestures towards it. 'If you've finished reading it that is?'

The woman decides she doesn't like the look of Clive one little bit, but without saying a word hands the paper over to him and leaves the train.

Clive riffles through the crumpled pages hurriedly looking for the article on Monica's death. He finds it on page nine A small piece tucked away at the bottom of the page.

TRANSSEXUAL KILLED BY MOB

A well known transsexual prostitute Michael Turner, more commonly known as Monica, was killed by a mob of around ten youths yesterday. Witnesses said Mister Turner was minding his own business when the gang surrounded him and began taunting him. What began as good natured banter quickly escalated into violence and the mob kicked and punched Mister Turner until he was unconscious. One member of the gang was seen to stamp repeatedly on his head before they ran away.

Mister Turner died in Charing Cross hospital shortly afterwards of his injuries. Police are investigating and ask that anyone who witnessed the attack contact the Charing Cross Incident Desk.

Clive feels utterly bereft. He reads through the article again and again, unable to accept the ramifications of it's contents. Hoping that by sheer force of will he could make it different...

That Monica wouldn't be dead.

That he hadn't failed his task miserably.

That he wasn't a TOTAL FUCKING LOSER!

Clive drops the paper on the seat next to him and looks around the carriage. Everything was turning to shit. The noise of the drunks seemed louder and more obtrusive than before. The harsh yellow strip lights hurt his eyes more than before. And the smell of piss stuck in his nostrils more than before.

Now what? Would the Lord give him another task? Or was this a one time deal? Would he now be branded a waste of space and be left to rot away in the mediocrity of his own pointless existence?

The last train pulls into Plumstead Station. A desolate piss-hole twenty years past needing refurbishment.

By the station exit Mary is begging change. It's normally too dangerous to beg at night but needs must and she's desperate. Clint went out for a paper two days ago and hasn't returned. Now she only has one wrap left and when that's gone she'll be fucked.

Mary's been hitting it pretty hard in the last week or so, and her personal hygiene has suffered accordingly. Her clothes are dirty, her hair is greasy, and she smells. A pungent bouquet consisting of body odour, piss and stale spunk. Right now she'd be lucky if a drunk gave her a fiver for a hand-job.

After being blown off by a couple of punters she approaches a likely looking drunk staggering towards the exit. He looks too pissed to know what he's giving over. 'Spare some change please?'

The drunk looks her up and down. 'What do you say you want darling?' He slurs.

'Some change. I need some money for the bus.'

'A young girl like you shouldn't get the bus at this time of night. You should get a cab.'

'I would if I had the money...'

Without warning the drunk grabs hold of her tits. Taken aback, she pulls away. 'What the fuck?'

'How much for a shag?'

'What are you doing grabbing hold of me like that?'

'What's up? You're a tart aren't you?'

'What makes you think that?'

The drunk's manner changes in a heartbeat. 'FUCK OFF THEN!'

'No, you fuck off.'

'NO, YOU FUCK OFF!' He grabs hold of her again. 'I'LL TEACH YOU A FUCKING LESSON YOU LITTLE COCKTEASER!'

'GET THE FUCK OFF ME YOU CUNT!'

As they continue to struggle nobody takes any notice. They all hurry past not wanting to get involved. All except Clive that is. He's not sure why, but he feels compelled to intervene. 'Leave her alone.'

The drunk whirls around to see Clive staring back at him. 'What the fuck's it got to do with you?'

'She's my sister.'

The drunk suddenly feels threatened and in the wrong. 'I'm sorry mate I didn't mean anything by it. I just wanted a kiss, that's all.'

Clive doesn't say anything, he just stares the drunk down. 'She's a very pretty girl is your sister. I didn't mean anything by it, honest.'

'Okay then.'

'I'll be off then.'

'Right.' The drunk slides off watched by Clive and Mary.

'Thanks for that.'

'No problem. Did he hurt you?'

'No, he just wanted to grope my tits that's all.'

At the mention of tits Clive glances down at Mary's breasts and notices the silver cross nestling between them.

'Don't suppose you've got some spare change you could lend me? Only I'm trying to get home, and some bastard stole my bus fare.'

'How much do you need?'

'Just like a couple of quid, you know. You can't trust no-one these...' Before she can finish answering Mary faints.

Clive catches her. 'Whooaa!'

He holds her up. 'Are you alright?'

PART THREE

GOD'S GOOD WORK

When Jesus rose early on the first day of the week, he appeared first to Mary Magdalene, out of whom he had driven seven demons.

Mark 16: 9

Mary lies unconscious on Clive's sofa.

Because of the state she was in when he got her home, Clive decided the best thing to do for her was to undress her first and wash her clothes. At least that's what he tried to convince himself was best. If he's really honest though, he'll admit he got a thrill out of the whole experience and had a hard-on throughout.

Now she lies naked before him, save for the silver cross still nestling between her ample cleavage. Clive stands over her admiring her still firm young body. Despite the cuts, bruises and track marks she still looks good naked. The junky-whore lifestyle hasn't taken too much of a toll on her yet, and most men would still find Mary desirable.

Clive certainly does anyway...

He caresses her hair with the back of his hand. Then traces his index finger down the length of the silver chain and over the cross allowing his fingers to brush against the insides of her breasts. When there is no reaction from Mary he gets a little more daring and gently runs the tip of his finger around the areola of her breast causing the nipple to become involuntarily erect.

Now he has a raging erection bursting out of his trouser and feels even more audacious. He holds his hand just above her pubis imagining stroking her pubic hair before inserting a finger into her. Now shaking with anticipation and lust he begins gently rubbing her pubic hair.

Still she doesn't react.

He rubs a little harder.

Still nothing.

He gently pulls her right leg away from her left exposing the slit of her cunt. He glances at her to check she's still incapacitated before sucking his middle finger to moisten it and inserting it into her. He marvels at how wet she is. Withdrawing his finger he holds it up to his nose and smells her sex. What a marvellous bouquet. Vin de Cunt!

Unable to control himself he unzips his trousers and releases his aching cock. He considers fucking her for a few moments before settling for wanking over her. He pulls on his cock as he watches her breasts fall and rise with her breathing.

Before he knows what's happening it's all over and his come splatters across her face and tits. He takes a finger and gently forces a small amount of the semen that landed across her lips into her mouth and onto her tongue so that when she wakes up he will have the pleasure of knowing she's ingested some of his spunk.

Now with the deed done Clive focuses on the cross around Mary's neck and is filled with remorse and shame. He quickly zips himself up and gets a wet flannel from the bathroom to clean the come off her. As he wipes the semen from her breasts she stirs slightly and Clive freezes. I shouldn't have done that, he thinks to himself. What the fuck was I thinking. But even as he's thinking it he knows that given another chance, he'll do exactly the same again.

It's who he is for fuck's sake.

Clive seeks answers in front of his altar.

'Why have you brought this woman into my life Lord? Is she another test, like the little temptress in your house? Or is it something else? Is she to be saved? Is that it? That would explain the silver cross around her neck. Is that it Lord are you giving me another chance? I harmed women in my former life, so you've made the care of this woman my task? Is that it?

'Our Father who art in heaven,

hallowed by thy name...'

The following day Mary is still sleeping on the sofa with Clive keeping a constant vigil in an armchair nearby.

He's reading his bible.

His reading is disturbed by Mary finally comes round with a pounding headache and a bad taste in her mouth. 'Fuck!' She says stretching and trying to look around with eyes that refuse to focus. Despite this, she senses unfamiliar surroundings. 'Where the fuck am I?'

Then she gets a glimpse of Clive, and it scares the shit out of her. 'WHAT THE FUCK?'

'Good, your awake. How are you feeling?'

'Who the fuck are you?'

'My names Clive. We met at the station last night, remember?'

'No.'

'You passed out? I brought you back here to recover. I'm glad you're feeling...

Just then Mary realises she's naked. 'Where are my fucking clothes?'

'They were filthy. I washed...'

'What did you do to me?'

'What do you mean?'

'I mean while I was out of it. What did you do to me while I was out of it?

'Nothing...'

'Did you fuck me?' A scenario flashes through her brain of Clive raping her whilst she was unconscious. She reaches down to inspect herself, as if expecting to find herself full of his spunk.

'No of course not...'

'Well, why am I starkers then?'

'I'm trying to tell you if you'll give me a chance to speak. Your clothes were dirty so I decided to wash them. They're hanging up in the bathroom to dry.

She eyes him suspiciously, then notices he's reading the bible, which seems to calm her down somewhat. She's woken up in some right dodgy places in the past, but to her relief, this one doesn't seem that bad. It could almost be described as pleasant.

'You got a fag?'

No, I've run out. But I can get some from the shop if you like. It's just down the road.'

'I've got some in my bag. Where is it?'

He points out her bag. 'Right there next to the sofa.'

Mary rummages in her bag and retrieves her cigarettes and lighter. 'Do you mind?'

'No, go ahead.'

She sparks up. 'I'd offer you one but I've only got a few left.'

'It's no problem. Really.'

'You some sort of do-gooder or what?'

'No, not really. You just looked like you needed help, that's all. Whenever I see someone in need I always ask myself: what would Jesus do? And then I do what I think is right.'

'You're religious then?'

'I've found the Lord yes.'

Mary takes a long tug on her cigarette. 'This your place?'

'Yeah, your welcome to stay until your feeling better.'

She looks around now her eyes are working properly. 'What did you say your name was again?'

'Clive. What's yours?'

'Mary.'

This startles Clive somewhat. 'What did you say?'

'I said my name's Mary.'

That confirms it then. Mary isn't another test, or a trap. She's his new task. The Lord has given him another fucking chance.

Praise the Lord.

He smiles to himself. 'Of course it is,' he says under his breath.

'What was that?'

'I said it was my mother's name.'

'Oh, right.'

They sit in silence while Mary finishes her cigarette. Clive knows he's seen Mary before but can't quite place her. It'll come to me, he thinks.

'Is it drugs?'

'What?'

'That made you collapse. Are you on something?'

'No, I was just feeling a bit shit that's all.'

'Really?'

'Yeah, I've not been sleeping very well lately, and it caught up with me. Can I take a bath?'

'Of course you can. I'll stick one on for you if you like?'

'Cheers.'

The hot bath and bubbles feel good. Really good.

This is a rare treat. Mary hasn't had a hot bath in weeks, not since the boiler at Clint's place packed up. When she can be bothered with such mundane activities as washing, she has to make do with boiling a kettle and washing in the sink.

As she sinks down under the water again Mary considers her good fortune. For once she's come up smelling of roses. This jerk must be good for a few quid at least, she thinks. I just need to play my cards right. God Botherer or not, I know what he wants. I know what they all want.

After soaking in the bath for about twenty minutes. Mary decides to burn one of her last fixes on a celebration hit. She rummages in her handbag which is sitting next to the bath and produces a small vanity case which now contains her drug kit.

She carefully unzips it and checks the contents. It contains a couple of wraps of heroin, citric acid, a syringe, a spoon, a lighter, matches (just in case), some filters and a short length of rubber tubing.

Mary sits wet and naked on the bath. Now her drug taking ritual begins: First she tightens the rubber tubing around her arm and pumps her fist. Then she digs the needle into her arm searching for a vein. After a little searching blood flows into the barrel of the syringe as she finds one. Almost shaking in anticipation she loosens the tourniquet slightly and empties the contents of the barrel into her arm.

The high hits her almost immediately.

'Fuck, yes!' She murmurs to herself. 'Fuck, yes!'

As she removes the syringe, a small quantity of blood spills out of the puncture wound and onto her stomach and legs. 'Shit.' Now she'll have to get back in the bath.

'And when you've got your shot framed up how you want it on the screen you press this button here.' She presses the button on Clive's mobile phone and takes a picture of him.

'Hey presto.'

Mary's wearing Clive's white towelling robe which is far too big for her and keeps falling open partially revealing her breasts.

'Can I see?'

'There you go.' She hands him the phone.

'Incredible.'

'You take a good picture.'

'I don't think so. Can I get these printed?'

'Yeah, of course. You just hook the phone up to your computer or printer. It looks like it's got Bluetooth?'

'It think it has, yeah.'

'Do you have a computer?'

'Not yet no.'

'Well, when you do.'

'Can I take your picture?'

'Go for it.'

She puts on a cheesy smile.

Clive frames the picture and takes it.

'Amazing.' He shakes his head as he scrutinises the picture.

He points the phone at her again.

'Can I take another.'

She strikes an over the top model-like pose causing the robe to fall slightly open. Clive takes the shot.

'Again.' Says Clive framing up another shot.

Mary allows the robe to fall fully open revealing her breasts, Clive takes the shot. David Bailey eat your heart out.

She covers up. 'Sorry about that Clive.' She lies.

'No problem. I didn't even notice.' He lies.

Later Mary and Clive are sitting at the dinner table eating soup and chatting. She's still wearing the robe, which is once again hanging partially open.

As she's talking Clive finds his attention taken up by a small mole on Mary's left breast. He usually finds moles repulsive, a real turn-off. But for some strange reason this one on her tit has the opposite effect. He's fighting an overpowering need to reach out and touch it...

'...And at the end of the book they all live on a planet of their own away from the rest of the human race which has evolved in a completely different way.'

Clive realising Mary has stopped talking tears his attention away from the mole on her tit and attempts to join in with the conversation. 'Yeah? It sounds really interesting?'

'It is, yeah. It's very spiritual.'

'What's it called? I think I'd like to read it myself.'

'Forever something or other. I'll find out for you if you like?'

'Thanks.'

'I used to read a lot Clive, because I was dyslexic...'

'You're not anymore?'

'Well, yeah. But I'm much better now.'

'What exactly is dyslexia?'

'It means you don't see words properly.'

'So, it's something to do with your eyes is it?'

'No, your head.'

'Oh.'

'Like I said, I used to read a lot when I was a kid as a way of overcoming my disability. At school the teachers just thought I was thick or something, and put me in a class with special needs kids, the mentals I called them, but I'm not thick...'

'I can tell that.'

'I just don't see words like other people do, that's all.'

'Do you still read a lot?'

'No, not anymore. I don't have the time these days.'

'I know what you mean. I used to read a lot but I haven't picked up a book apart from the Bible in months. I just got out of the habit I suppose.'

'What I used to do as well is look in the dictionary and try to learn new words. Words I liked the sound of mostly.'

'Like what?'

'Let me think...How about this one; dirigible. Do you know what a dirigible is?'

'No.'

'It's a sort of airship.'

'A hot air balloon?'

'Yeah.'

'Dirigible. I like that.'

Clive thinks that Mary is a little odd. But no matter, she's young and pretty and besides, people who don't know him properly might think he's a little odd.

They continue eating in silence with Clive snatching the odd sly look at the mole on Mary's tit . Then: 'I've got to go out early tomorrow Mary. Will you be alright on your own?'

'Yeah, I'm used to it.'

'Okay, I'll leave you some money just in case you need anything.'

Mary can't disguise her surprise. 'You don't mind me being here on my own?'

'Why should I?'

'You don't know me from Adam.'

'No, but I trust you.'

'Yeah? Why?'

'I think you're a good person.'

Got you, she thinks to herself.

Clive's thoughts are disturbed by something. He can't help thinking he's seen Mary before, and lays awake in bed flicking through the pictures on his phone. 'Where do I know you from Mary?' He says to himself.

Then it comes to him. She bears an uncanny resemblance to one of his victims. His first victim in fact.

'Shit!'

Clive had seen the girl often on the heath. He liked to go up there to be alone and think, she seemed to use the heath as a shortcut on her way home from somewhere.

She was beautiful, unattainable. He fantasised about her often. But a girl like that wouldn't look at someone like him twice, and he knew it. A girl like that wasn't for the likes of him.

It was a beautiful summers evening. The girl was wearing a thin white cotton dress. The sun shone through it revealing the outline of her body. Clive remembers how horny he felt.

She looked like she needed fucking. And he was the man to do it.

...We're back in time. Clive is following the girl across the heath. She feels uncomfortable by his presence, and glances nervously over her shoulder at him.

Now as he remembers the events of more than twenty years ago, Clive switches the girl with Mary. Now she doesn't just look like Mary, she is Mary.

Clive acts nonchalant but increases his speed imperceptibly, gaining on the girl steadily.

In his head he knows what he's going to do. When they reach the secluded wooded area he's going to make his move. He has a flick knife in his pocket that he fingers as he walks. No more daydreaming about it, This is the time.

He looks around to make sure nobody else is about. Then catches up to her a little more, his heart pounding with anticipation. He can smell her perfume on the breeze and it makes him feel even more aroused.

She can hear his footsteps getting closer and closer and speeds up a little more in a vain attempt to put some distance between them. They both know what is about to happen.

Now he's so close he could reach his arm out and touch her on the back. He decides to talk to her. 'Excuse me love.'

There's no answer.

He tries again. 'Excuse me.'

Suddenly the girl is off and running for the cover of the woods. Clive is momentarily caught off guard, but soon gives chase.

'Get away from me!' She shouts over her shoulder.

Clive doesn't answer, but catches up to her and brings her to the ground like a lion felling an antelope. He produces the knife and flicks it open. She stares at it, her eyes wide with fear.

'If you want to live, do what you're told.'

'Please...'

'You got me?'

The girl nods.

Clive straddles her waist and rips open her dress. He holds the knife to her throat as he pulls up her bra and fumbles at her breasts. The public information film she saw at college about rape rings in her ears: Don't resist. Don't anger the assailant. That's how you get hurt.

Clive puts his hand up under her dress, pulls aside her knickers, and inserts a finger into her. She remains rigid and unmoving. Don't resist.

'Open your legs!' He orders.

She does.

Clive mounts her. He's rock hard and guides his cock in with his free hand. She dry and it isn't comfortable, but he doesn't care.

He begins fucking her. 'You like that you little slut?'

The girl doesn't answer but instead stares up at Clive as if in a trance. Her staring up at him makes Clive feel uncomfortable. 'Don't you fucking look at me!'

She turns her head to the side.

'No. close your fucking eyes or I'll put them out!'

She does. Still with her head turned to the side. Don't resist she keeps telling herself. Don't resist and this will all be over soon. She thinks about the holiday to France she's going on next week. This will all be over then. Don't resist. Why is he taking so long?

'What's your name?'

She doesn't answer. She might not resist, but she's not giving this bastard anything of herself.

'What's your fucking name you little slut?'

No answer. Fuck you.

Clive is so excited he comes in under a minute.

Afterwards he just lays on top of her for a while feeling bad. He was so horny he felt compelled to rape her, now he feels somewhat wretched and remorseful. He gets up, puts his cock away and runs off.

The girl remains unmoving on the ground still with her eyes closed until he's long gone. Then she begins to cry.

When Clive was convicted on multiple counts of rape a few years later this case wasn't included amongst them. The girl felt so ashamed she never reported the attack to anyone.

Back in his bed, Clive has a hard-on from thinking about his first rape. He takes out one of his diaries from the bedside table and flicks through it until he finds what he's looking for. Then he reads the diary entry to himself: The little slut had been asking for it for weeks. Always walking across the heath wearing skimpy clothing, flaunting herself. Well today she well and truly got what was coming to her. I gave her a right good fucking. The sort of seeing-to she won't forget in a hurry, if ever. While I was doing her I could tell, REALLY TELL, that she was loving it. And I'm pretty sure she came as well. If I go back up the heath next week she'll probably be there, hoping I'll fuck her again. I might just do that, but then again, why bother? There's plenty more flowers to pluck (fuck).

Now Clive really has the horn.

He goes into the front room where Mary is asleep on the sofa, and watches her breasts rise and fall in time with her breathing. As he watches her he realises all sound has drained out of the world save for his own breathing, which is becoming louder and louder.

Suddenly he's griped by an almost uncontrollable urge to take hold of Mary and sate his lust on her.

Then he thinks better of it, and goes back into his bedroom and has a wank instead. While he's wanking he's thinking about the rape of the girl/Mary, like he has many times before. But this time knowing Mary is asleep next door makes it even for exhilarating.

Clive is visiting with Finch again.

'And I got that mobile phone you suggested Mister Finch.' He holds the phone up for Finch to see.

'That looks a bit flash Clive.'

'It is, yeah. It was a bit more than I wanted to pay really, but it's got lots of cool stuff on it.'

'Well, they're handy things to have.'

'Yeah. Course I haven't actually got anyone to call yet. But, you know, when I do...'

Back at Clive's house at the same time Mary is snooping around looking for anything she can steal. Small things she can slip into her bag to sell later, jewellery, cash, stuff like that. Nothing that is likely to be missed.

She goes into Clive's room and is taken aback by the sight of his elaborate home-made altar. 'What the fuck?' She knew he was a bit odd, but this is off the scale. 'He's out of his fucking mind.'

She sits on the bed to take it all in.

Back at the parole office.

'I just feel like my whole life up to this point has been wasted.'

'Not all wasted, surely?'

'Well pretty much all. Twenty-five years in prison. No wife. No kids. No friends. No job...'

'You're still relatively young, things can change.'

'Yeah, I know, but...'

'You need to start living in the present Clive. Not the past.'

'You're right, I know. The Lord coming into my life has given me a second chance. A chance to atone for my past sins...'

'I know where you're coming from, I really do. Many reformed characters feel like you do...'

'I just need to try to make a difference, you know. Otherwise, what's the point?

'Well, you have every opportunity Clive. The slate has been pretty much wiped clean as far as the state is concerned. Your future can be whatever you want it to be.'

'I know. I intend to grasp the future with both hands Mister Finch believe me.'

'Good...Talking of friends, have you made any on the outside yet?'

'No, not yet.'

'So, how are you coping with your feelings of loneliness?'

'I'm doing a bit better actually.'

'Really? How come?'

'Well, I've just got a cat.'

'A cat?'

'Yeah, a stray. I've sort of adopted it.'

'Cat's are good. They're independent so they don't take much looking after...'

'Absolutely.'

'And they're very good company. In fact, I think they can be better company than some people I know.'

'Yeah, I think she'll be good for me.'

'What have you called it?'

'Mary.'

Clive arrives home to find the house eerily silent. He wonders where Mary could be. 'Hello, Mary?'

There's no answer.

'Mary?'

Still no answer. Clive has a bad feeling that Mary may have left. He searches the house becoming increasingly concerned as he fails to find her. 'Mary? Mary? Where are you?'

He finally finds her in his bedroom lying flat on her back on his bed. His initial euphoria is tempered when he spots the hypodermic sticking out of her arm. 'What the?'

He tries to rouse her to no effect. 'Mary!'

He shakes her harder. 'MARY! Mary! Wake up!'

She comes to a little. 'What?'

'What's going on Mary?'

'Leave me alone. Let me sleep.'

'What the fuck is going on Mary?'

'What?'

'Have you brought drugs into my house? Mary?

No answer. He shakes her violently. 'HAVE YOU BROUGHT DRUGS INTO MY FUCKING HOUSE MARY?'

Still now answer. She's totally wasted.

Clive kneels in front of his altar.

'I knew your task wouldn't be an easy one Lord. Otherwise, what would be the point?' He looks over at Mary. 'I think I know what I have to do Lord, but I need help. Please give me the strength to do the right thing...

'Our father who art in heaven,

Hallowed be thy name...'

Mary wakes up disoriented in an empty room. She rubs her eyes and looks around trying to get her bearings. 'What the fuck?'

She immediately sees she's in an attic room. The walls are painted a dirty white. The floor is bare boards with no carpet or varnish. She's lying on a sleeping bag in the middle of the room. Next to her is a plate of covered sandwiches, a large bottle of water, a packet of cigarettes, some matches, a radio, a bucket, a child's plastic potty and some toilet roll. There's no furniture except for a simple wooden chair.

'Fuck.'

She doesn't feel well. Is she ill or drug sick?

After a few minutes thought she realises she's drug sick. 'How long have I been out?' Whatever, she needs a hit. 'Where's my fucking bag?'

She struggles to her feet and tries the door. It's locked.

'What the fuck?'

She rattles the handle in frustration.

'Clive? Clive? CLIVE?'

Clive arrives at the other side of the door. He's been dreading this moment ever since he took the decision to lock Mary in the spare room to help her get off drugs.

He decided the only way forward for a degenerate junky like Mary is if she's forced to give up drugs cold turkey. Clive's not sure if going cold turkey is dangerous, but he trusts the Lord to do the right thing. This is God's will. If he want's her to be alright she will be.

'Hello Mary.'

'The door's stuck Clive. I can't get out.'

'It's not stuck, it's locked.'

'Can you let me out? I don't feel well.'

'I'm afraid I can't do that Mary.'

'Why not?'

'It's for your own good.'

'How's that?'

'You've got a demon in you Mary. And I intend to help you cast it out. For the wages of sin is death, but the free gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.'

'What the fuck are you on about?' She rattles the door violently to no avail. 'Let me out!'

'No Mary, It's for your own good.'

'Stop saying that and let me fucking out!'

'You'll thank me for this one day, mark my words.'

'This is a free country. Who the fuck are you to lock me up like this?' She starts banging on the door. 'I've got rights, human rights. You can't just lock me up like this. LET ME OUT YOU BASTARD! LET ME THE FUCK OUT!'

'Please stop that Mary. I wont let you out until you're better...'

'FUCK OFF!' She continues banging on the door, but in reality she's so weak at the moment she could barely open an unlocked door, let alone this one that Clive has reinforced with two sliding bolts (top and bottom) on the outside of the door.

'I'll scream.'

'Go ahead.'

'HELP! I'M BEING HELD AGAINST MY WILL...'

'It's no good, no-one can hear you.

'HELP! HELP ME!'

'It's no good Mary. The house on the left has been empty for months, and Mrs Fraser on the other side is as deaf as a post.'

Realising she's not getting anywhere Mary tries a different tact. 'I need to have a piss.'

'You have toilet facilities in there. I know they're basic, but...'

Mary notices the potty. 'You've gotta be fucking kidding me. You expect me to piss in that?'

'I'm sorry, it's for your own good.'

'FUCK OFF THEN!'

'Alright. Call me if you need anything.'

Clive joins the congregation of St John's church in singing 'Abide With Me' again.

' _Abide with me, fast falls the eventide;_

The darkness deepens, Lord with me abide!'

The young girl is on her knees again giving him a noisy blowjob. This little slut can really suck cock, he thinks to himself as he pushes her head deeper onto his shaft.

' _When other helpers fail and comforts flee,_

Help of the helpless, O abide with me.'

He looks around and sees his mother looking at him. 'What are you doing Clive? That girl is only fifteen! They'll send you back to prison if you don't stop it.'

'Fuck off Mum.'

' _Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day;_

Earth's joys grow dim, it's glories pass away;'

On the verge of coming Clive looks down again, but it's not the girl sucking his dick now. It's Mary! She stares up into his eyes while she's sucking him. 'Are you going to come Clive?' She says. 'You can come on my face if you like, or my tits.' She rips open her shirt. 'Would you like to come on my tits Clive?'

' _Change and decay in all around I see;_

O thou who changes not, abide with me.'

He looks around again and sees Finch looking at him. 'Don't you dare come on her Clive. I'll send you back if you do.'

'You can fuck off and all Finch.'

'I'm warning you Clive...'

Too late. He shoots his load across Mary's face and mouth. She greedily licks it up. 'You naughty boy Clive. Did you like that?'

'You know I did you little slag.'

A disembodied voice calls out from above him. 'Clive?

Clive?

CLIVE?

CLIVE?'

Clive wakes up in bed covered in his own spunk. He's had a wet dream.

Mary is shouting out to him. 'CLIVE?

CLIVE?'

'Shit!'

'CLIVE?

CLIVE?'

'What do you want Mary?'

'Let me out will you Clive? I'm fucking dying in here! I need to get out. Will you let me out Clive? Will you?'

'No Mary, it's for your own good.'

'FUCK OFF! Let me out you bastard!'

He ignores her.

'Clive?

Clive?

CLIVE?

CLIVE?'

Clive can't help thinking that it would have been a far easier task to have killed that fairy Monica than put up with this fucking shit. Such is the price of failure.

'CLIVE...'

'FUCK OFF MARY!' He covers his ears in exasperation.

Mary is woken by the sound of the bolts on the door being slid open. She sits up just as Clive comes through the door holding a tray of food.

As he enters Clive notices that the bucket and surrounding floor is covered in puke. It looks and smells totally disgusting, though he tries not to show his revulsion on his face. 'How are you doing Mary?'

'How do you think I'm doing? I'm fucking sick!'

'I've brought you some food, that'll make you feel better.'

'I'm busting for a piss.'

'You have facilities for that.' He gestures towards the potty.

'Fuck off. I can't piss in _that_.'

'Why not?'

'It's degrading.'

Clive has to smile to himself. Here is a drug-addled whore telling him that pissing in a potty is degrading. 'What are you talking about Mary, is it more degrading than putting that shit in your body? More degrading than begging on the streets for change? More degrading than letting perfect strangers have their way with you for money?'

There's no answer from Mary. Instead she stares at him with hatred bubbling up inside her.

'...No, I didn't think so.

'FUCK YOU!'

'Eat your food, you'll feel better.'

As Clive places the tray on the floor next to her, Mary summons all the energy she has left to attack him. Before he can react, she strikes him hard across the face. Despite her apparent frailty, it stings like crazy.

Clive grabs hold of Mary's wrists to restrain her and pushes her back down onto the sleeping bag. Undeterred she attempts to get up again, only to be forced back down once again.

The struggle and adrenalin trigger something in Clive. As Mary continues to struggle he slaps her hard across the face, grabs hold of her by the throat, and leans right into her face. 'I'll teach you to behave yourself cunt.'

'FUCK YOU!' She shouts, then spits in his face.

Enraged, Clive rips open her blouse with both hands, causing her breasts to come tumbling out. This spurs him on even more. He doesn't realise it yet but he has a raging hard-on. He grabs hold of her throat again with one hand, and puts the other under her skirt to start pulling off her knickers. She continues to struggle violently, slapping and scratching at him like a wildcat.

Her knickers are off now. Instinctively his free hand makes toward her cunt. It's wet, and his middle finger slides in easily. He's lost control now. 'Is that what you want slag?' He leers.

'Fuck off you dirty bastard!'

While he continues fingering her, he leans back down to her face and licks her neck. The smell of puke and sweat fills his nostrils and he's loving it. The dirtier the sex, the more he likes it. He'll teach this cunt a fucking lesson. He removes his hand from under her skirt and starts to fumble with his fly. 'You filthy whore...'

Suddenly Clive becomes aware of what he's doing. He stops dead and looks at Mary in shocked silence. She just stares back at him saying nothing.

He stands up uneasily. Mary smiles to herself. In her mind she's just won a moral victory over this fucking hypocrite. _She knows what he wants. She knows what they all want._

'Eat your food.' He says quietly as he's leaving.

'Fuck off!' She shouts after him.

It occurred to Clive while he was having a wank later, that he could keep Mary captive in his spare room indefinitely. Then he could do whatever he wanted to her including fuck her. His own personal sex slave. The thought thrilled him.

It also occurred to him that the Lord wouldn't exactly approve of such a course of action. If he didn't sort out an alternative target for his sexual urges he would end up failing another task. 'I nearly fucked the little whore then'. He muses. 'I might not be so strong next time.'

He decides the best thing to do is probably to visit with Kim, the whore he saw a while ago. He can do whatever he wants to with her, and have no comebacks.

During her first couple of days in captivity Mary spent a lot of time sleeping. To be awake meant constant nausea, cold sweats, aching muscles, stomach pains and TOO MUCH TIME TO THINK. Too much time to think about what a mess her life is, and too much time to think about her current situation; drug sick and held captive by a perverted religious freak. Maybe her old man was right about her all along?

Now she sits in the corner of the room shivering. She tried to make herself puke earlier but nothing came up except bright yellow bile. It tasted fucking terrible and burnt her throat.

She lights up another cigarette. It calms her down a little.

She wonders if Clint is out looking for her. In her dreams she imagines him kicking down the door and rescuing her. Then he gives her some gear, and they end up fucking on the floor like animals...

Yeah, like fuck.

Deep down she knows he doesn't really give a fuck. Oh, he makes out he does while she's useful to him, but if this nutter never lets her go, he'll soon move onto somebody else. That is, If he hasn't already. The bastard.

Mary

is

aware

of

herself

out

of

her

own

body.

She looks around the room and can see herself lying on top of the sleeping bag in the middle of the room. What's happening? Is she dead? Hallucinating? Or is this something else?

One thing she is aware of is that she feels strangely together and lucid. The state of the room shocks her. Has she really spent days sitting surrounded by her own piss and puke? Fuck. Has she lost all sense of self worth? If she survives this she needs to sort herself out, once and for all. No more fucking about.

She turns around when she hears the door being unlocked expecting to see Clive enter. But it isn't Clive who comes in, it's her father. 'Dad.' She calls out, but he doesn't hear her. Instead he talks to her other self still lying on the floor.

'Mary. I knew what would happen to you all those years ago when you became pregnant. I told you then that no good would ever come of you, and I was right wasn't I? Look at you. Just look at you. You're a drug addict, a beggar and a fucking whore. Are you proud of what you've become Mary? Are you?'

Mary tries to interject but he can't hear her. He continues his tirade against her other self.

'...I'm just glad your mother isn't alive to see you like this. For Christ's sake, you could have been anything you wanted to be. You had it all, looks, intelligence, opportunity. And what did you do? You threw it all away, just because you couldn't keep your knickers on. Well that child is better off dead than to have had you as it's mother! Do you hear me Mary? It's better off dead than to be with you. And what's more, I wish it was you who were dead! Do you hear me Mary? I WISH YOU WERE DEAD! FUCKING DEAD I TELL YOU! DO YOU HEAR ME MARY?'

Mary wakes with a start. It was a nightmare.

'Fuck.'

She hasn't thought about either her father, or her aborted baby for years. And she starts to cry uncontrollably.

Clive leans back in his chair. 'I lost my cherry when I was nineteen. It was a disaster.'

Doctor James peers over his clipboard. 'In what way exactly.'

'I came very quickly, and the girl who was much more sexually experienced then me, wasn't very nice about it.'

'I see.'

'I didn't find her that attractive anyway, she was rather fat I seem to remember, but she let me fuck her so I went with it...'

'What did she do?'

'She just took the piss a bit, that's all.'

James writes in his notebook. 'What about after that?'

'Then came my only real girlfriend, Pauline. I didn't fancy her much either.'

'But you had sexual relations with her?'

'Yeah of course, but I could hardly bare to fuck her. I quickly came to the conclusion that I didn't want to fuck any girl who would actually fuck me.'

'You only wanted what you couldn't have?'

'I suppose so, yes.'

'What happened once you decided that?'

'I masturbated a lot at first, you can fuck anyone you want when you have a wank.'

'In your head?'

'Yeah, in your head. In fact I've fucked hundreds of desirable women in my head. And you're in control, without some smug bitch taking the piss. Sometimes I like to take my time, other times I like to get it over with quickly...'

James nods.

'...And you're always a stud when you have a wank. You're always on your game and the women are always incredibly grateful. Just how it should be.'

James pauses to take some more notes. 'What made you start molesting women?'

'I wanted a bit more of a thrill I suppose. Stealing knickers and wanking wasn't doing it for me anymore. I groped a couple of women on busy tubes at first...'

'Did that excite you?'

'Of course it did, I was in charge. I grabbed their arses and there was fuck all they could do about it. I swear some of them enjoyed it and all.'

'Go on.'

'Then I had an epiphany. It occurred to me that I could have any woman I wanted. No matter who they were, or how unattainable they appeared. Do you have any idea how intoxicating that feeling is?'

'I can imagine.'

'Can you really? I'm talking about any woman. Whether you see them on the street, at work, or in a shop, it doesn't matter. If you want her, you can have her.'

'That seems very scary to me.'

'It was to me at first. Then I embraced the possibilities.'

James writes in his pad again.

When she woke up this morning, Mary had developed a noise in her head that felt like a rat gnawing at her brain. She feels like if she doesn't get out now she'll go out of her mind. The lucidity she had in her dream is long gone, replaced by an all-pervasive fear.

She starts pounding on the door with her fists.

'CLIVE! I NEED TO GET OUT NOW!'

Silence.

'LET ME OUT WILL YOU CLIVE?'

Silence.

'I'LL LET YOU DO ANYTHING YOU WANT TO ME CLIVE, I KNOW YOU WANT TO.'

Silence.

'I'LL SUCK YOUR DICK CLIVE, AND YOU CAN FUCK ME. DO YOU HEAR ME CLIVE? YOU CAN FUCK ME IF YOU LET ME OUT NOW. IN THE ARSE IF YOU LIKE.'

Clive is standing near the cooker in the kitchen. He has a gas ring lit, and is holding his hand near to the flame. He can hear Mary shouting in the background.

'DO YOU HEAR ME CLIVE? YOU CAN FUCK ME IN THE ARSE IF YOU LIKE, I KNOW YOU WANT TO.'

'Lord, give me strength.' He murmurs. It wont take a lot for him to lose his resolve and go into the room.

'COME IN AND FUCK ME CLIVE! WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR? ARE YOU QUEER OR SOMETHING?'

He can take no more. 'SHUT YOUR FILTHY FUCKING MOUTH WHORE!'

'YOU'RE STILL ALIVE THEN?'

No answer.

'COME ON YOU BASTARD. FUCK ME!'

It's Sunday morning. Once again Clive is watching the back of the young girls house for signs of life. However, this time he's timed it so the family will be out at Sunday service. This time he doesn't want her to be home. This time he's decided he's going in.

Earlier he rang the doorbell to check if anyone was home. When there was no answer he came around the back just to be sure. Now satisfied, it's time to move in.

He checks his watch. Service is on for another forty-five minutes, plenty of time. He approaches the garden fence, puts on a pair of black leather driving gloves and after a furtive glance around, climbs over.

He tries the back door and to his amazement finds it unlocked. He opens the door gently and closes it behind him. Already he can feel the old rush of excitement coursing through his body. Not wanting to waste any time he heads immediately upstairs. The bathroom door is closed but both bedrooms are open. From watching the girl before Clive instinctively knows which one is hers.

As he enters his excitement level rises again. It's a typical teenagers bedroom. The bed is unmade, and dirty clothes, magazines and CD's are strewn around the floor. Clive picks up a blouse from the floor and sniffs it. A lovely smell fills his nostrils. Is that what an angel smells like? Or a whore?

But wait a minute, something isn't right...

Clive notices the computer is still on. Would they go out and leave the PC on? Just then as if in answer to his question the toilet in the bathroom flushes. Clive panics. Fuck, she didn't go to church with the rest of them, she's here! He looks around for somewhere to hide and decides the only possible option is in the built in wardrobe. As he flings the doors open as quietly as possible to inspect the interior he sees there's just enough room to hide in amongst the clothes.

He gets in just in time and sits down on a row of shoes with dresses and trousers hanging down all around his head. It's uncomfortable, but at least he's hidden. As he pulls the door shut he leaves them slightly ajar so he can just see out.

Moments later the girl comes into the bedroom wearing silky pink pyjamas. She immediately sits down and starts typing on the keyboard. What the fuck do I do now? Clive thinks to himself as his panic rises. There's no way I can possibly get out of here undetected. I'm fucked.

Despite his fear Clive feels incredibly turned on by the situation. He is only feet away from a beautiful little whore who is scantily clad in thin silk pyjamas. And what's more, he can smell her scent on the clothes in her wardrobe.

He glances around and sees a collapsible nylon washing basket next to him half full of dirty clothes. Clive gently rummages around and comes up with a white bra. Out of curiosity he checks the tag. It comes from Marks and Spencer and is size 36C. He lifts it to his nose and takes in a deep sniff. Lovely. He stuffs it in his pocket and dives in again. This time he comes up with a pair of white knickers with pink bows on them. As he continues to watch the girl through the crack he sniffs and licks the crotch.

He's had a raging hard-on ever since he broke into the house. As he strokes it through his jeans he considers several options open to him. Perhaps now is the time to fuck the little slut? He could fill all her holes with his spunk. He could fuck her in the arse and make her lick the shit off his cock. He would make her apologize for all the wrongs perpetrated on him by womankind, and then when she has admitted her part in his betrayal he would destroy her without mercy.

Then again, maybe he should just have a wank into the knickers he's holding up to his nose? He checks his watch and is shocked to find how much time has elapsed while he's been watching from the wardrobe. Sunday service will be over in only fifteen minutes and her parents will be home shortly after. If he's caught he'll be sent straight back to prison and he's still got too much work to do to allow that to happen.

Time to go then.

If he's going to get out he needs to act now while he's still got a decent chance of getting away. He concludes the only thing to do is simply burst out of the wardrobe and make a run for it. There's not much the girl can do to stop him is there? In fact she'll probably shit her pants rather than try.

Ten minutes until Sunday service is over. Fuck it. He stuff's the knickers in his pocket with the bra, steels his nerve, and bursts out of the wardrobe. The girl screams and turns away from him in terror.

Without bothering to look round Clive takes the stairs three at a time and flies out of the door which he leaves flapping as he runs down the street with the girl's screams ringing in his ears. He runs and runs and runs. He runs further than he can ever remember running in his entire life and still he keeps running. His lungs are about to burst and his legs are ready to collapse under him, but still he keeps running.

When he gets home he pukes in the toilet before collapsing on the sofa to recover. 'Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.' That was too close.

Mary is sitting in the corner of the room with her knees pulled up to her chest. She's lost in her own thoughts watching a black beetle scuttling aimlessly around the room.

When she hears the door being unlocked Mary opens her legs so that Clive gets a full view of her bare snatch. She knows what he wants. She knows what they all want.

Clive enters the room carrying a tray of food. He makes out he hasn't noticed anything, but really he's thinking he should fuck the arse off the little prick-teaser and teach her a lesson once and for all.

The atmosphere in the room is now fetid. It makes Clive gag, though Mary seems completely oblivious. 'I brought you some food Mary. How are you feeling this morning?'

Mary doesn't respond.

'I think we need to crack a window, what do you think?' He places the tray on the floor just inside the door. 'Don't feel like talking? That's okay, can I do anything else for you?'

'Yeah, you can take this away for me.' With this she hurls the potty full of piss at Clive. It hits him full in the face. He momentarily loses it, with piss dripping off him.

'YOU FUCKING...' In his head he's cutting her throat.

He gathers his composure. 'You wont provoke me.'

'I thought I just did?'

'Call me if you need anything.'

'Fuck off!'

Clive leaves the room, locking the door behind him.

Five minutes later he's back, carrying a bucket of cold water. He hurls it over her. 'Here.'

It drenches her. 'That'll clean you up a bit you filthy whore!'

'YOU FUCKING BASTARD! YOU DIRTY FUCKING BASTARD!'

'Fuck you slut.'

He leaves again locking the door behind him.

'YOU DIRTY FUCKING BASTARD!'

Clive didn't hear a peep out of Mary last night. Normally he would hear her ranting and raving and throwing things around, but last night, nothing. A rare peaceful night. He thought about seeing if she was alright a couple of times, but decided against it. Her fate is in God's hands now, he reasoned.

He enters the room to find Mary asleep, curled up in a foetal position on the sleeping bag.

'Mary. Are you alright?'

No answer.

He's concerned. 'MARY?'

She stirs. 'What?'

'How do you feel today?'

'I feel like shit, but I think I've beaten it.'

'Really?'

'Yeah, I don't feel drug sick at all.'

Sometime in the night Mary woke up to herself and stopped being angry at Clive. The clarity of her dream invaded her waking consciousness and she realised that what he's done for her is a good thing. That being clean, is a good thing. He wasn't the cause of her problems, but he might just be the answer.

She stands up and embraces him.

'Thanks Clive.'

'No problem.'

'I think you've saved my life.'

'The Lord saved you, I was just doing his work.'

Mary holds onto Clive for a long time. So long in fact that it makes him feel uncomfortable. Her soft breasts pressing against his chest was making him feel aroused, and even he knows that it was wrong to feel sexual at a moment like this.

He pulls away from her.

'Can I take a shower please Clive?'

'Of course.'

Mary starts taking off what's left of her clothes in front of the bathroom door which she's left partially open on purpose. Clive passes by and notices her stripping off. He can't help himself, he has to stop and have a look.

Mary pretends she hasn't noticed, and takes her shower with the door slightly ajar and Clive watching her. If she's going to sort herself out, she's going to have to stay for a while. Of course Clive will expect his leg over from time to time, but that's no big deal. She's done far worse things for drugs. In fact compared to many of her punters he's actually quite attractive.

In bed later that night Clive can't sleep as he turns things over and over in his head. The Lord had given him a task, to care for the reincarnation of Mary Magdalene, because let's face it, that's what she is, isn't she? Therefore, is the fact that she's now safe and off of drugs enough? Can he take her as his woman? He's not a priest, or Jesus or anything so why not? But if he's wrong, he'll have failed God again...

What should he do?

Can he live the life of an ordinary man?

What the fuck should he do?

Unable to sleep Clive gets up to go to the toilet.

He passes Mary asleep on the sofa.

After contemplating her sleeping for a while he goes into the bathroom to take his piss.

Afterwards he washes his hands, then regards himself in the mirror. 'Lord, what should I do? Give me another sign will you? Can I live the life of an ordinary man? Will you allow that? Or do you have other plans for me?'

Coming out of the bathroom Clive climbs on top of Mary and puts his hand over her mouth. She wakes up terrified. He puts his face up close to hers. 'Is this what you want slag? To get fucked?'

Her eyes widen in fear.

'You've fucked about with the wrong person this time you little cockteaser. I'm gonna do things to you an ordinary person couldn't even begin to contemplate!'

Holding her down he begins to violently rape her.

Clive wakes up in bed with a jolt. It was another dream/nightmare?

'Jesus.'

Suddenly Mary's voice appears out of the darkness. 'Clive, are you asleep?'

'No, what do you want Mary?'

'I can't sleep. I was wondering if I could share with you?'

Clive's heart jumps into his mouth. He desperately wants to say yes, but is terrified of the consequences if he does. Is the fact that she's here offering herself to him a sign from God that it's okay? Or is this another test? An opportunity for him to fail again.

What should he do? For fucks sake.

A vision of a naked Mary riding on top of him, as he cups her ample breasts flashes through his head. Then he bottles it.

'I don't think so Mary, not tonight.'

That's not the answer she was expecting. 'Oh, are you sure?'

'Yes Mary. I'm sure.'

A stunned silence.

'...Really?'

'Good night Mary.'

Clive is visiting with his parole officer, Finch.

'And I've made a friend Mister Finch.'

'You have?'

'Yeah, a woman, Mary.'

'Finch can't hide the surprise on his face. 'A woman?'

'Yeah.'

'Is that wise?'

'What do you mean?'

'What I mean is, given your history, is it wise to be making friends with a women at this point in your rehabilitation?'

'I don't do that anymore.'

'Yes, I know that, but you're still coming to terms with life on the outside. I don't think you need any complications right now...'

'I can use the company.'

'You're seeing a lot of her are you?'

Clive doesn't answer.

'Clive?'

'Well, she's sort staying with me for a bit.'

Now Finch is really concerned. 'I don't think I'm happy about this development Clive. Not happy at all. Where did you meet her?'

'At church.'

'At church? And she doesn't have anywhere else to go?'

'No. She needs my help Mister Finch, she has problems.'

'What sort of problems?'

'With drugs...'

'Clive. You know that one of the conditions of your bail was that you don't associate with the wrong sort of people...'

'I know that but...'

'In your particular case a female drug addict would definitely fall into that category. You could be sent back to prison for this Clive, do you realise that? Is that what you want?'

'No, of course not, but she needs my help. The Lord wouldn't want me to turn my back on someone in need would he?'

'I'll give you some details of organisations who can help her, but I think it would be better for all concerned if she moved out straight away. Do I make myself clear?'

Clive is thinking fuck you, but at the same time realises that simple act of disobedience could bring down the whole house of cards that constitutes his life. An immediate return to prison the likely outcome.

He'd be fucked.

'Okay, Clive?'

'Okay Mister Finch.'

Finch makes some notes in Clive's case file.

'Can you telephone the office as soon as possible, to let me know you've resolved the situation?'

'Yeah, off course...I'm sorry.'

Clive spends the rest of the day walking the streets deep in thought.

He's got a decision to make, and it really needs to be made today. If he does what Finch wants and sends Mary away he risks letting God down. But if he allows her to stay he risks being put back inside. What should he do? 'For fuck's sake. Jesus help me.'

He goes into a greasy-spoon to consider things over a cup of tea. He sits at a table in the corner of the cafe staring into his cup as if he can somehow find all the answers he needs in the murky brown void.

He's so engrossed he doesn't notice a figure sidle up to his table. 'Mind if I join you?' The man says. Startled, Clive looks up to see it's the mad Jock he met in the launderette before who kept banging on about cats.

When Clive doesn't answer the Jock sits down anyway. 'Do I know you from somewhere pal? He asks. We've met before yeah?'

'I don't think so mate.'

The Jock is unconvinced. 'You sure? You look very familiar to me.'

'Pretty sure, yeah.'

'Well never mind. I couldn't trouble you to get us a cup of coffee could I? I wouldn't ask normally you understand, but I seem to have come out without my wallet, and I'm spitting feathers here.'

Clive can't be arsed arguing with the cunt, he's got too much on his plate for all that. He gestures to the woman behind the counter for a coffee. 'Cheers pal. That's very kind of you.'

'No problem.'

'Being as we're old pals, and you've just done me a good turn, I'm prepared to let you in on a new business venture I'm just about to embark on.'

'That's okay, I'm not really...'

'Now I wouldn't normally do this, but like I say, you've done me a good turn and all...'

'It's just a cup of coffee...'

'Are you aware how fucking annoying it is when somebody constantly interrupts you?'

'Sorry.'

'As I was saying, I'm just about to embark on a new business venture that is so brilliant, so glaringly obvious, it's hard to believe nobody has done it before. Now if I say to you doughnuts what would you say?'

'I don't know...'

'You'd probably say the nations favourite cake wouldn't you?'

'I would?'

'You would. Do you know we eat more doughnuts in Britain than all the other types of cake put together?'

'Is that right?'

'Of course it is, I wouldn't say it otherwise would I?

Here we go again, Clive thinks to himself. 'No I suppose not.'

'And do you ever ask yourself what they do with all the holes they cut out of the doughnuts?'

'What do you mean?'

'You know, ring doughnuts. When they make the hole in the doughnuts, what do they do with the bits they cut out?'

'I don't know.'

'Well I'll tell you. They just throw them away.'

'Do they?'

'Aye, they do. And I thought to myself, wouldn't it be a good idea to take all of those doughnut holes and instead of throwing them away, put them in packets and sell them as a product in their own right. I'm planning on calling them wholes, do you get it?'

'No.'

'Wholes,' he gestures with his hands. 'wholes, like holes but whole.'

Clive still doesn't get it. 'Oh right...'

'I've been speaking to various big bakers and they're all really interested, you see in these days of sustainability it doesn't do for them to just throw stuff away like that, not when it can be reused anyway.'

'Don't they just use them to make more doughnuts?'

The Jock looks at him incredulously. 'You're kidding me right?'

'No...'

'Now you see, that's the problem with a little knowledge. It's obvious you've heard a bit about recycling, but you have no idea how it applies to the catering industry do you? And what about health and safety? You have to understand that these are major operations I'm talking about here pal, not some dodgy wop kebab shop. They're not just going to reuse some fucking old doughnut pieces now are they?

Clive doesn't know what to say. There's an uneasy silence between them for a few seconds. 'I'm sorry if I got a bit agitated then pal. It's just that I get tired of dealing with people who don't understand business. You know who would really like this idea? Alan Sugar, but I don't know how to get hold of him...'

Clive gets up to leave. 'Sorry mate but I've got to go now.'

'Hang on a minute pal. You haven't heard what my offer is yet.'

'I haven't got the sort of money to invest in something like that.'

'Ah, but that's the beauty of this pal, I can let you in on the ground floor for say, fifty quid.'

'No thanks.' Clive puts a fiver on the table. 'Here, this should cover the coffee.'

'What the fuck? I offer you the biggest thing since sliced bread for an initial investment of only fifty quid and you don't want to know.'

Clive's on his way out of the door. The Jock shouts after him. 'You know the problem with people like you pal? You wouldn't know a good fucking deal if it was stuck on the end of your prick!'

Late in the afternoon, Clive finds himself back in his local church. It's empty. He can hear the faint sound of children playing in the nursery based in the carbuncle next door.

He closes his eyes to contemplate, hoping for some divine guidance. Finch says Mary has to go, he wants her to stay. The Lord has the casting vote. 'What should I do Lord?' He implores. 'Give me another sign. Please.'

His thoughts are broken by a voice. 'Are you alright?'

Clive opens his eyes, it's Colin, the vicar. 'Yeah, I'm fine thanks.'

'We've met before haven't we?'

'Yeah, I've been to service a couple of times.'

'That's right. I'm sorry, but I've forgotten your name? You meet so many people in this line of business.'

'It's Clive.'

'I'm Colin.' He extends his hand which Clive takes. 'Good to see you again.'

'And you.'

'We don't get too many people in during the week Clive. I just came to check you weren't burgling us.' He smiles.

'I just needed to be alone with the Lord, that's all.'

'Oh, right, of course. Is there anything I can do to help?'

'I doubt it. I've got a decision to make and I was hoping for some guidance.'

'I see. Well, I think God resides in all of our hearts. If you want his guidance, just look into your own heart and I'm sure you'll find the answer your looking for there.'

'I was thinking more along the lines of a sign or something.'

Colin chuckles slightly. 'Oh, right.'

His levity angers Clive somewhat. 'You don't think that's very likely do you?'

'Well, I don't think God affords many sign to us mere mortals, no. I certainly haven't seen any...'

'I have.'

'Have you?'

'Yeah, a couple as it happens.'

'Well, you're very lucky then Clive.'

'You don't believe me do you?'

'I didn't say that.'

'No, but I can tell by your manner. You think I'm either a nutter, or full of shit.'

'I think that people see God in all kinds of things.'

'But you don't believe in direct signs from God?'

'That's a very loaded question...'

'Why? Don't you believe in God?'

'Of course I do, but...'

'If God is infinite? And can see everything we do and think, past, present and future...'

'Yes?'

'Then why wouldn't he give us a sign? Something to let us know we're on the right track?'

'Well, I think he could obviously, but he want's us to make our own way in life. That's why he gave us free will, and the ability to make our own decisions. Free will is what sets us apart from all his other creatures. Ultimately we have to make our own choices, and take responsibility for them as well.'

'This is a hard decision I have to make.'

'I know, but just do the right thing. In your heart you know what that is, don't you?'

'I think so, yeah.'

The next morning after a sleepless night Clive gets up early to prepare breakfast. He intends to tell Mary she has to go today, but can't quite bring himself to do it. After breakfast, he reasons. That's when I'll do it.

If this is to be their last meal together, then he's determined to make it a good one. He cooks a slap-up feast of a breakfast: Egg, bacon, sausage, black pudding, tomatoes, beans, mushrooms, fried slice and a large mug of tea. A Full-English.

Clive says grace. 'For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly grateful. Amen.'

'Amen.'

They eat largely in silence. Mary can sense something is wrong but doesn't know what. Clive has been quiet all morning.

They exchange a look. 'Are you alright Clive?'

'Yeah, I've got things on my mind that's all.'

'What sort of things?' She put's her hand on his.

This makes him feel even more uncomfortable. He hurriedly moves it away. 'Things to do with you Mary.'

'Really? Like what?'

'How are you feeling?'

'Much better, why?'

'Good, I'm glad...'

That sit in silence for what feels like an eternity, but is in fact only a few seconds. 'This is difficult.'

Mary knows what's coming. 'What is?'

'Well, I was thinking now you're feeling better, it'd be better for all concerned if you moved on now.'

'You what?'

'I have information on organisations that can help you...'

'Fuck that! I've been there, done that. They're all shit!'

'I'm sorry, but...'

'You said you wanted to help me.'

'I thought I had helped you?'

'Well why bother if all you was gonna do was kick me into touch when it suits you?'

'I'm sorry...'

'I thought we had an understanding Clive?

'Trust me Mary, if there was any other way.'

'Have I been coming on too strong? Is that it?'

'No, nothing like that.'

'Well what then? I don't understand.'

'There are things about me...'

'What?'

'I've got to go now. When I get back...'

'Don't worry. If that's how you feel, I'll be gone.'

Clive places a wad of notes down on the table. 'Here. This should help to tie you over until you get properly sorted.'

'Whatever.'

'I'm sorry Mary. I really am.'

Mary continues picking at her breakfast. Clive leaves the money on the table and leaves the room. They both feel utterly bereft.

Now what?

PART FOUR

WHEN THE MAN COMES AROUND

And when he had opened the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth beast say, come and see. And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him.

Revelation 6: 7-8

_Whoever is unjust let him be unjust still. Whoever is righteous let him be righteous still. Whoever is filthy let him be filthy still. Listen to the words long written down. When the man comes around._ Johnny Cash, When The Man Comes Around.

Clive is sitting in an armchair with his trousers around his ankles.

Mary is on her knees sucking his dick greedily.

'Do you know how disgusting you are?'

No answer.

'I said, do you ever consider how disgusting you are Mary? A person who fucks for money?'

Mary takes his cock out of her mouth to answer him. 'Not really, no.' She resumes blowing him.

'Well you are. You're a pig wallowing in it's own filth!'

Silence.

'Do you hear me slag? You're the scum of the earth. The lowest of the low!'

Silence.

'You're little more than a bucket for the spunk of hundreds of men. The Whore of Babylon. A man would have to be fucking mad to stick his cock inside something like that wouldn't he?'

Sensing he's on the verge of coming, she takes his cock out of her mouth and begins wanking him whilst licking the tip of his cock.

'You fucking degenerate slut!'

He looks down just before he shoots his load. 'You fucking whore, you love it don't you?'

But it's not Mary who's blowing him, it's Kim the prostitute. 'Of course I do Clive.'

His come splatters over her face.

'Arrgghh. You filthy fucking whore!'

She licks the come from around her lips. 'Who's Mary?'

Clive arrives home late to find the house in total darkness. He enters and turns the lights on. 'Mary?' He calls out, more in hope than expectation.

When his plea is met by a stony silence he tries again. 'Mary? Are you there?'

More silence.

He was secretly hoping she would still be here. Now as he looks around the house, Clive knows his worst fears have been realised, he's all alone again. Mary's gone, and she's taken the money with her.

Up until this point Clive wasn't even aware how much he enjoyed having Mary around. Now, despite the fact that she has been gone for less than a day, he feels intolerably lonely. Even when he had her locked in the spare room, just knowing she was in there brought comfort to him.

He's suddenly griped by an overpowering anger towards God. 'You couldn't let me have one thing could you? Not one fucking thing! You had to make her go away, didn't you? WELL, FUCK YOU GOD! DO YOU HEAR ME? FUCK YOU, AND FUCK YOUR POXY SON AND ALL!'

'So she'd gone..?'

...Doctor James stops writing in his pad and peers across the desk towards Clive waiting for an answer. 'Yeah, she'd gone.'

'But that's not the end of the story?'

'No, or I wouldn't be here would I?'

'No, I suppose not. So what happened next?'

'Well, it turns out that Mary's boyfriend Clint was an even bigger degenerate than she was. A right low-life scumbag. Total Pond Life.'

'Does that justify what you did to him?'

'I wont be judged by the likes of you Doc.'

'I was only playing devils advocate Clive, not judging. Please continue.'

'...Okay, I was sitting in the dark contemplating life on my own again when there was a knock at the door. I don't normally get visitors, apart from fucking Jehovah's Witnesses that is, so I ignored it. Fuck them I thought. Only the knocking continued and became louder until I felt compelled to answer it. I even thought it might be Mary...'

'But it wasn't?'

'No, it wasn't...'

...We're back in time to Clive's house. Clive heads out into the hallway towards the front door. 'Alright I'm coming.' He swings opens the door, but it isn't Mary or Jehovah's Witnesses he's confronted by, it's Clint in all his finery.

'You Clive?'

'Yeah.'

'Good, I want a word with you.'

'What about?'

'Business.'

'Business? What business?'

'Mind if I come in?' Without waiting for an answer, Clint pushes his way in uninvited.

'Hang on a minute...'

'I think what we've got to talk about is best done in private bruv. We don't want your nice respectable neighbours getting the wrong idea now do we?'

'Getting the wrong idea about what exactly?'

'About you mate. Seems you've been making improper use of my property.'

'Your property? What property?'

'Mary.'

'Mary?'

'Yeah, Mary. I own her, and I'm here to discuss remuneration.'

'For what exactly?'

'Well, it eems you've been holding against her will, and taking certain...liberties with her and all.'

'I don't know what your talking about. I helped her to get off drugs...'

'Who says she wanted to, a? You didn't think of that did you?' He picks up some of Clive's religious artefacts. 'You some sort of religious freak are you?'

'I think you should go.'

'I don't care what you think Godman. I want my money.'

'I haven't got any money.'

'That's not what I hear.'

'Look, I'm not paying you for the privilege of helping Mary.'

'You made free with the snatch and all, so I hear?'

'Is that what she said?'

'Yeah, that's what she said. Now, the way I see it is this. You owe me for a weeks loss of earnings. Any fucking about you got up to during that time don't really concern me. Call it a freebie...'

'I'm not giving you anything, so you might as well go.'

Clint suddenly becomes menacing. He slaps Clive gently around the face a few times. 'Clive, Clive, Clive. I'll go when you pay me my money, and not before...'

'I'm not paying you anything! Now, if you don't mind.' He beckons towards the door.

Without warning Clint punches Clive hard in the stomach. It knocks the wind out of him, and he doubles over feeling nauseas. 'WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU TO HOLD MY BIRD PRISONER CUNT?

Clint then kicks Clive square in the face. Blood splatters all across his face. 'YOU'RE FUCKING LUCKY I DON'T KILL YOU, YOU MOTHER'S CUNT!'

Clive spit's a tooth out. 'I don't have much money here.' he splutters.

'Well you'd better fucking well find some then, hadn't you?

'I've got some in my bedside cabinet. I'll just go and get it...'

'Now we're cooking with gas Bruv. We'll go together shall we?'

Clint grabs Clive by the collar and drags him into the bedroom. On catching sight of Clive's shrine he give's out a loud whistle. 'What the fuck is this?'

Clive rummages in the drawer of the bedside cabinet and rescues a wad of notes which he passes to Clint. 'Here, that's all I've got.'

Clint rifles through it. 'No, this wont do at all. Maz could have made me this much in a couple of days. You put her out of commission for over a week...'

'It's all I've got...'

'Bollocks! You'll have to get more.'

'How much more?'

'At least another couple of grand I reckon.'

'No, I don't have it.'

'Listen Godman, if I don't get my money I'm gonna do some serious fucking damage, you got me? I AINT NO FUCKING DOUGHNUT.' With this he grabs hold of part of Clive's altar and rips it down. 'I'M A FUCKING BAD MAN! YOU GOT ME?'

'What the fuck do you think you're doing?'

Clint rips some more of the shrine down. 'ARE YOU GONNA GET ME MY FUCKING MONEY CUNT, OR WHAT?'

'Yeah, I'll get it. I'll need to go to a cash point.'

'Now you're talking.' Clint turns his back on Clive to leave the room. A fatal mistake. 'That wasn't so hard now was it reverend...'

Clive seizes the opportunity. He picks up a small marble statue of Jesus, and hits Clint squarely on the back of the head with it. 'I'LL LEARN YOU, YOU BLASPHEMING CUNT!' Clive screams at him.

There's a sickening thud, and Clint goes down in a heap like the proverbial sack of shit.

Clive ruefully regards the damage to his shrine. 'I think you need to learn some fucking respect...'

...We're back to the present in Doctor James office.

'I gave that cunt a right working over with the twigs. And when he cried out for mercy, I hit him even harder for being a pussy.'

James checks his watch. 'Looks like our time is nearly up Clive.'

'Okay.'

'But before you go back to your cell, I'd like to talk about what you did to Mary. Can we talk about what happened to Mary?'

'What happened to Mary? I'll tell you what happened to Mary. I was teaching that cunt a lesson in respect, when I was interrupted by another knock at the door...'

'Mary?'

'Yeah, Mary. She was clearly high on something, and I could tell straight away from the look on her face that she was in on it with that scumbag boyfriend of hers...'

'And you felt betrayed?'

'Fucking right I did. She'd taken the money I gave her in good faith and gone straight out and spunked it all on drugs. I knew then there was no hope for her either. And it seems the Lord knew that as well, and used this moment to impart judgement on both of us...'

...We're back in time to Clive's House. Mary can't hide her surprise when Clive opens the door instead of Clint. 'Clive...'

'Who were you expecting?'

Mary doesn't answer. Instead she just stands in silence looking up at him waiting for something to happen.

'You'd better come in.'

She does.

'What do you want Mary?'

'I'm looking for someone.'

'Are you?'

'Yeah.'

'Who's that then?'

'A friend of mine.'

'A friend?'

'Yeah, Clint.'

'And what makes you think Clint is here?'

'He was coming to see you.'

'Really? What business could this Clint possibly have with me?'

'Where is he Clive?'

'I don't know what you're talking about Mary.'

'Just stop it will you Clive?'

'...That scumbag belongs to you does he?'

'He's my boyfriend, yeah.'

'Your boyfriend? The man who got you hooked on drugs? The man who beats you? The man who pimps you out for money? You call that your boyfriend? Unbelievable.'

'Where is he?'

Clive assumes the air of a benevolent father figure. 'Mary, what are we going to do with you, a?

No answer.

He reaches out to her and gently strokes her cheek. Then he traces a finger suggestively down her neck and across her chest until he comes to the silver crucifix still nestling between her breasts. He takes hold of it and rips it off. Mary is stunned. 'What the fuck?'

Clive holds the crucifix up. 'You're not fit to wear this.'

'What? Why's that?'

'Because you're a cheap little whore.'

He throws it to the ground, grabs Mary around the throat and gets right in her face. 'Do you know what happens to cheap little whores Mary?'

She doesn't answer. Instead she looks at the ground and shakes her head slightly.

'Bad things Mary, that's what. Bad things!'

'W, w, where's Clint?'

'He's in my room, learning some respect for his maker.'

Clive releases his grip on Mary and she rushes over to the bedroom and flings the door open. She has no idea what will greet her, but it certainly isn't what she finds, which she couldn't imagine in her worst nightmare.

'There's your boyfriend Mary.'

Clint is laid out crucifixion style on the floor in front of Clive's altar. He's stripped to the waist and gagged. Blood from his head wound covers both the floor and his face, and his torso is a mess of blood and welts from the whipping Clive has administered with his hazel twigs.

'He dared to belittle the sacrifice of Jesus Christ our Lord...'

Mary struggles to take in the terrible sight before her. What the fuck has this nutter done to Clint? Then she notices the worst thing of all...

'...So I had to teach him about it.'

Clint has been nailed to the floor by his hands and feet.

Large nails have been hammered straight through him into the floorboards beneath in the manner that Jesus was crucified. Small pools of blood have formed around his extremities.

'WHAT THE FUCK HAVE YOU DONE TO HIM?'

'I told you, I taught him some respect.'

He grabs her by the hair, and pulls her back hard. 'And now I'm going to teach you...'

...We're back to the present in Doctor James office. 'The little slut pushed me too far Doc, I couldn't help myself.'

'Is that what you told yourself while you raped her?'

The question hangs in the air between them for what seems like an eternity before Clive answers. 'How can you rape a whore..?'

...We're back in time to Clive's house. Clive picks up a half-empty glass of water from next to the bed and pours it over Clint's face.

He wakes with a start. 'What the..?'

Forgetting he's nailed to the floor, Clint attempts to move, but cries out in agony as the nails restraining him rip into his flesh further. More blood oozes from the wounds to add to the pools already on the floor.

Clive smiles down at him. 'I bet that smarts don't it?'

Clint shouts out in anger but it's rendered indistinguishable by his gag.

Clive pulls Mary's hair harder and says to Clint: 'You need to see this.' He pushes her onto the bed and rips her clothes off. When she tries to fight back he punches her hard in the face busting her nose, and splitting her lip.

'Are you watching closely bad man?'

Clive's cock has never been harder. It's so hard it feels as if it's grown a couple of inches. He hasn't fucked a woman in twenty-five years, twenty-five long fucking years, and this whore is going to pay for every last one of them.

'Time to open your cunt to Jesus Mary!'

Using his cock like a weapon, Clive forces it roughly into Mary's cunt, and begins to rape her with all the ferocity of a jackal ripping a carcass to pieces. He feels so powerful he genuinely believes he can fuck her to death. Like Superman fucking a mortal woman he rips her cunt to pieces with unrelenting ferocity.

Again and again he pounds into her mercilessly. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Each thrust accompanied by a guttural moan from Mary as the wind is beaten out of her.

This is little better than fucking a piece of dead meat but that doesn't matter to Clive. He bites Mary's face, neck and tits, drawing blood which he licks up in a frenzy of sexual gratification.

As he's coming, he head-butts her, then punches her again.

I can fuck her to death!

I can fuck her to fucking death!

When he's finished Mary is passed out from the savagery of her ordeal. Clive reaches into her handbag which she dropped on the floor and fishes out her cigarettes. He sparks one up. 'There you go Mary, you did it, didn't you? You pushed me too fucking far you little slut.'

Clint is staring up at Clive crying with rage. The hatred in his eyes so powerful it almost evaporates his tears. He says something to him that is muffled by the gag, but which Clive can just make out as: 'I'll fucking kill you!' Or words to that effect.

Clive looks down at Clint with utter contempt. 'What's that? You want paying for my improper use of your property do you?' He reaches into his pocket and produces a crisp twenty pound note which he screws up and throws at Clint. 'There, that should settle our account. Not that you'll be able to spend it of course, not where you're going...'

...We're back to the present in Doctor James office. 'Even though Mary had been the instrument of my failure, I still felt some compassion for her. I couldn't let her live as a useless drug addled whore a minute longer, that would have been too cruel.'

'You felt you had the right to make that judgement?'

'I didn't make any judgement, the Lord did.'

'I see. And you had nothing to do with it?

'Of course not...'

'And what about Clint? Did the Lord pass judgement on him as well Clive?'

'He didn't need to. A drug-dealing, junky, pimp, thief. A degenerate who sold his girlfriend for money, and desecrated the Lord's shrine. A white man who was so twisted he'd rather be a nigger. What the fuck do you think the call on him was going to be? A place at God's right hand?

No answer.

'I decided the only end fitting those two was to burn in the fires of hell. I found a bunch of old chemicals in the garden shed, white spirits and the like, and used that to start a fire...'

'You burnt them alive?'

'What do you think will be waiting for them in hell? I thought they might as well get used to it. Have you ever read Dante's Inferno Doc?'

'No.'

' _Through me is the way into the woeful city; through me is the way into eternal woe...'_

'That's a terrible end.'

'I suppose it is, yeah. But then God can be a vindictive cunt when he wants to be...'

...We're back in time to Clive's house. After setting the house alight, he sits on the kerb outside smoking a cigarette. Behind him is a scene of devastation akin to a biblical prophecy. It feels like the end of the world. For Clive it probably is.

A crowd gathers.

People ask him what happened, but he ignores them. He's too intent on watching Death ride off into the night sky on a pale horse. In the distance he can hear sirens drawing closer.

'I thought about staying in the house and going straight to hell with them...'

Doctor James cuts in. 'Why didn't you?'

'I knew I didn't deserve a quick end, that would have been too easy.

'Really?'

'I also believe the Lord has further use for me. Even in here.'

Back in his cell Clive is kneeling in front of a simple wooden cross perched on top of a table. In his hands he's holding a book of prayer from which he recites the fifty-first psalm. _'Create in me a clean heart, O God:_

and renew a right spirit within me.

Cast me not away from thy presence;

and take not thy holy spirit from me.

Restore unto me the joy of thy salvation;

and uphold me with thy free spirit.

Then will I teach transgressors thy ways;

and sinners shall be converted unto thee.'

Amen.
