The Hanging Christian – Episode 10

Catch up on Episode 9 here.

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…Declan managed to snap the padlock, and carefully hauled the bomb off Freya. They both looked at it, lying on the grass.

“It’s still live,” said Declan, “I’ve no idea how to diffuse it.”

Declan started to rise, “I’ll bring in bomb disp-”

He toppled backwards onto the grass, arterial blood gushing from the bullet-hole in his neck.

Freya tried to put pressure on the wound with her fingers, like she’d seen people do in films, but blood was spraying in her face and all over her hands making them slippery, and he was convulsing and clearly dying, and her efforts were obviously doing nothing.

She gave up any semblance of attempted first-aid and just cradled his head in her arms. He looked up at her with glassy eyes and tried to speak, but either he couldn’t form words, or his whisper was drowned out by the gunfire.

Pretty soon he was dead. She extricated herself and gently laid him down on the grass.

In the street the police and radical rationalists seemed to have reached a stalemate, both sides camped down in cover, both laying down a hail of suppressing fire. All the shopfronts were devastated and some were quietly ablaze. Of Prince William there was no sign; he was either dead or had managed to get away. At this point, Freya didn’t really care.

The explosives were still lying nearby on the grass. She knew she had to do something with them to try to stop any more innocent people from dying.

She looked up at King’s Chapel and then began to crawl towards it across the lawn, hauling the bomb behind her.

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The silence of the grand space was soothing. With the imposing doors closed behind her, the cacophony of the battle outside was reduced to a mere murmur, and Freya felt a strange crushing weight of calm as she placed the explosives at the centre of the deserted chapel.

The stained glass windows glowed in the last of the sun’s rays.

She heard the doors creak open, and turned slowly to see a hunched silhouette outlined in the entrance.

Professor Seydowsky stepped into the chapel. He was injured in the leg and shoulder, and took unsteady, hobbling steps, blood dripping in heavy droplets from his clothes. He had a manic glint in his eyes that Freya had never seen before.

“Very clever, using the heavy roof and walls to contain the blast. Very. Clever.”

Speaking was an effort for him. He kept up a slow but implacable rolling gait, advancing towards Freya. She stood where she was, the bomb at her feet.

“You think you have foiled us, Miss Lee, but you do not know of the twisted web that-”

“Oh shut the fuck up, Professor,” interrupted Freya, “There’s no point going on a long, tortuous rant, I’m not going to listen to your bullshit ever again. You’re a sad, out-dated elitist crackpot, and for all your ‘rationality’ you really are one of the most colossal idiots I’ve ever met. How the fuck is killing people improving society?”

“Of course, you are too young to understand, it’s a matter of net good outweighing-”

“Save it,” she said sharply, “I literally could not care less. If that’s saving the world then I’d rather watch it die.”

The professor had reached the bomb now. He stood in front of her, wheezing, his wounds oozing blood.

He smiled as he pulled the detonator from within his jacket and placed his thumb on the trigger.

“I would say that I look forward to seeing you in hell, Miss Lee, but then we both know there isn’t one for us to go to-”

Freya kneed the old man in the balls and neatly caught the detonator as it flew out of his hand. He collapsed to the ground, moaning.

She stepped over him and walked out of the chapel.

When she was some distance from the building she activated the detonator, and watched, with a grim I-wonder-how-much-I’ll-get-fined-for-this-and-I-am-definitely-degrading-plus-even-after-a-lot-of-counselling-I’m-still-unlikely-to-ever-really-recover-but-I-think-I’ve-probably-learnt-something smile, watched the fiery destruction of a centuries-old architectural marvel.

THE END.