First Response

BRIXTON (12.28 p.m.)

Father Morrison reached inside his vestments, pulled out a bright red handkerchief and mopped his brow. ‘I’m going to need my medication,’ he said to the man chained to his wrist.

‘Medication? For what?’

The priest chuckled ruefully. ‘Where do I start? High blood pressure, diabetes, gout. The flesh is failing, my son. I’m in my seventh decade, you know.’

‘Statins?’

The priest nodded. ‘Oh, yes.’

‘My doctor put me on them last year. They make my legs ache.’

‘Mine too. But at least the blood pressure comes down.’

‘They told me to stop smoking.’

The priest smiled. ‘Me too. Chance’d be a fine thing. It’s one of the few vices that we priests are allowed.’

‘And where is your medicine?’

Father Morrison waved towards the back of the church. ‘In the sacristy.’

‘What’s that?’

‘It’s the room where we change into our vestments. Over there, by the altar.’

‘We have to stay here.’

‘One of my parishioners can get it.’

‘Everyone stays here,’ said the man. ‘I need to be able to see everyone.’

The priest dabbed his forehead again, then blew his nose before slipping the handkerchief back into his pocket. ‘Why are you doing this, my son?’

‘You know why. They want the six ISIS prisoners released.’

‘And why are they in prison?’

‘Because they are jihadists. They were in Syria, fighting for ISIS.’

‘I can never remember what that stands for,’ said the priest. ‘It always sounds like an insurance company. What does it stand for? ISIS?’

The man shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’

‘You don’t know? You’re prepared to die for them and you don’t even know the name of their organisation?’

‘They are jihadists and they fight in Syria. Now they’re in prison. That’s all I know.’

‘And by threatening innocent people you think they’ll be released?’

The man nodded.

‘And you do this in the name of religion? You do this for God? Your God?’

‘You need to shut up, priest.’

Father Morrison took out his handkerchief again and mopped his forehead. ‘What’s your name, my son?’

‘I’m not your son. You’re not my father.’

‘I’ve already told you my name. It’s Sean. Listen, we’re human beings, aren’t we? Can’t we at least treat each other with some civility?’

The man sighed. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘If it’ll shut you up. My name is Rabeel.’

The priest smiled. ‘See? That wasn’t too difficult. Now at least we know who we are.’ He put the handkerchief away. ‘And you are a Muslim?’

Rabeel sneered at the priest. ‘What sort of question is that? Of course I’m a Muslim. One look at me and you know I am.’

‘Because of your beard? I have parishioners with beards. Because of the colour of your skin? Look at my parishioners, Rabeel. Most of them are of colour. This is Brixton, remember. I am the minority here.’

Rabeel gestured at the explosives and wires in his vest. ‘How many Catholics do you see wearing vests like this?’

The priest forced a smile. ‘Admittedly not many. But the Catholic Church has had its fair share of martyrs in the past. Do you want to be a martyr? Is that why you’re here?’

Rabeel shook his head fiercely. ‘I don’t want to die. Not today. Not like this.’

‘Then take off the vest. Walk outside with me.’

Rabeel shook his head again. ‘I can’t.’

‘Yes, you can. You have free will. A man’s life is made up of the decisions he takes.’

‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘I know that your God wouldn’t want you desecrating a house of worship. Islam and Catholicism are not that far apart.’

‘Of course they are,’ snapped Rabeel. ‘Have you forgotten about the Crusades, when you Christians waged war on Islam? Millions died.’

‘But we have moved past that, Rabeel. Different religions can live together. We can worship our own gods and respect the right of others to worship theirs.’

‘Father Sean, please, just shut the fuck up, you’re doing my head in.’

‘Maybe that’s because you’re starting to realise the enormity of what you’re doing,’ said the priest. ‘You know this is wrong. Of course you do. Do you have a wife, Rabeel?’

‘Yes. I have a wife.’

‘And children?’

‘Two daughters.’

‘So you’re a family man. Do you want your family to live without you, Rabeel? Do you think it’s fair to them for you to be behaving like this? Is it how you want your family to remember you?’

‘You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,’ said Rabeel. He sighed. ‘Okay, fine, you can have your medicine if that’s what it takes to shut you up.’ He gestured at the parishioners in the front rows of the pews. ‘Tell one of the women to go and get it. One of the old women.’

‘Thank you,’ said Father Morrison. ‘Mrs Brooks,’ he called, to an elderly West Indian lady in a large black hat with a sweeping brim. ‘Mrs Brooks, could you do me a special favour?’

She stood up.

‘Be an angel. Go into the sacristy and get my medicine, will you? It’s in my bag. The white ones. And the blue and white capsules, bring them too. Actually, bring them all. The more the merrier.’