Closure was imminent. There was no rescue, no prayer to any God that could save it now. The community had turned against it. The word of God did not exist here anymore, not even in the Bibles that stacked on the rack, their black binding blending in with its surroundings until it disappeared into the depths of darkness.
Then there was light. Not the light of the way. Not the light when God created the earth. Not even the light to take us out of the darkness. It was an evil light. The light of a raw roaring fire. It caught the flimsy curtains that covered the secrets of the church, turning the bread to toast, cracking the glass bottles in which the wine was contained, it trickled down the wooden table, to the floor, like blood. Like the blood that seeped from the wounds surrounding the heavy nails of the tiny man on the crucifix.
It flooded through the hollow church within seconds. Tearing its way through pulpits, hymn books and the stations of the cross. Licking the air the red spectres danced up to the wooden rafters and down to the floorboards that lead to the stone cold crypt. Twisting and turning in a wall of flames, overcoming the tapestries that barred the walls, at first singeing the boarders then the red slipped across the cross-stitch, leaving only a picture of the black night outside.
The crypt was alight. In the corner of the pit, a figure in a black robe settled down on a stone coffin where the body of some ancient friar lay, his soul in a higher place than his would ever reach. He watched the orange and red swallow up his church. He didn't need it any more. Nor did he need the body which his soul inhabited. Outside he could hear a faint murmur which had he been outside he would have heard as the chants and cheers of the people he had once loved and recalled bringing the love of God to. Now, he sat alone, no god to hear his silent prayer that would never save his soul. He had done dreadful things, things he'd never confessed, things that no matter how many Hail Mary's he said he would never be forgiven. He was glad he was inside. Now it would all be over.
Lying back on the slab beneath him, tugging his robes to cover him completely. He felt the heat now. The intense heat like opening an oven to take out a dish. There was no point in shouting, yelling or fighting to get out, looking for secret passageways which probably did exist, he just didn't have the energy or felt the necessity to do these things. He wasn't prepared for death. Nobody had given him his final rights, told him of the world ahead of him and now he didn't care. None of the people standing outside jeering would listen to his prayer let alone appreciate it. Even though he knew it was pointless, his lips took the form of the words of prayer, only a light whisper emitted from his dry cracking lips that hadn't touched water since breakfast. He'd been trapped in the church since then and fasting would not save him now it was dinner time.
His eyes closed as the flickering flames jumped up and grabbed his hem, tickling his feet, but he did not laugh. He willed himself to die before the flames reached his heart. The pain ebbed with his breathing and soon he was mere ashes. The tear that trickled down his face couldn't dampen the fire and the flames unremorsefully coated his face.
The Fire Brigade hadn't been called out until they were certain that the whole church was engulfed. Even then it was only because they were concerned that it would set the rest of the village on fire. Red fought red, and for several hours there was a doubt as to who would win. "Was there anyone in there?" The yellow helmeted man asked no one in particular. Those who were close enough to hear said they didn't think so. So no one rushed in to the rescue, the focus was on extinguishing the fire that towered up to the steeple. Ladders raised to fight at the height as the battle of the elements fire and water commenced.
Inside rafters were falling onto the multiple rows of seats, where once the humble villagers had knelt on thin cushions and prayed to a God who hadn't listened to their prayers. The cheers had subsided once the red engines whirred around the corner and only sad faces existed, a few fake tears were sacrificed for the act. The village was far too small to have it's own fire station, hence, by the time the out of the way brigade had arrived, the scene was set.
A tall man dressed in dark, fireproof clothing rushed in once the flames were only tiny waves upon the wooden floor. His protective mask shielded his lungs from the putrid smell and smouldering smoke of the aftermath of a fire. No one would have survived in this heat and smoke, but it was his duty to do this. Striding confidently down the former aisle, he looked about him to check that debris wasn't going to topple on his head. Most of the ceiling had vanished and he could see a couple of stars multiplying and procreating in the sky.
The wooden altar had crumbled to the ground, as had the lectern and font. Statues stood defaced and charred. Had a helicopter flown overhead at that moment, it would have seen a blackened shell of a church. "Stupid to call out" Simon thought. Oh what the hell "Hello! Anybody there?" He did feel stupid after doing that. His paces took him to the far end of the church, the head. Spangles of gold hung in all the wrong places, melted and reformed.
Lucas was behind him. A very long way behind him. He was new and found his black suit stiff and uncomfortable. His helmet was slightly lose and wobbled as he staggered in Simon's footsteps. He missed his ponytail. He'd had to have his hair cut for the interview and training session. Now his neck felt cold, even in this heat.
He felt there was someone behind him. Could sense it without even looking back. A shadow of a person, no one he knew. Lucas had been able to recognise people just by their air for some time and although he was new, he felt he knew all of the team, and this was definitely not one of them. He stopped. He had to do it abruptly or else he would not be able to surprise whoever it was who was following him. But no one bumped into him and he could no longer feel the presence. He turned his head, like an owl's, over his shoulder, his eyes pearcing the moonlight darkness, scanning the room, tasting the atmosphere, but the feeling had gone. There was only Simon and he was in front and he was now traipsing to the stairs.
A flashback. He saw the entrance to the stairs and even though he was at least ten metres away, he could see the steps in his head. It was a memory he didn't want to remember. Lucas hesitated again, trying to regain the balance between reality and his memory. He suddenly was captured again by the sight, except this time there was a figure standing at the top of the steps, looking down, a pretty smile drawn across her angular face. Dark hair tied tightly back from her scalp, forming a jagged frame for her features. Dressed in black, her collar covering her neck, like hands around her throat, silkenly slipping down her body in a skin tights dress, touching her ankles to vanish into a clean cut hemline. Her shoes danced with a tiny silver buckle. Then she was gone. Lucas rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand which was not glazed in a black film, but so was his face, only the whites of his eyes gleamed through.
But who was she? Was he just imagining it? She looked so familiar, as if he knew her. Now, he knew he just had to catch up with Simon and stay close to him. The steps were still warm to the touch and a strong smell hit his nose. He followed the smell down, down, down into the pit, where cremated bodies lay. Little did they know that Azrael was dead too.
Father Azrael had lived in the village for, it seemed like centuries. Everyone could remember being christened by him, most couples had been married by him and many of their dead had been buried by his hands, but now his burnt skeleton hands would never be laid upon anyone again. The sight of the burnt corpse embittered Lucas' throat, but it was his job.
The survey of the building was over. Demolition was the only solution. Nobody wanted a church anyway.
